


Leave Everything On The Field

by ThatsWildPatrick



Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy, My Chemical Romance, Panic! at the Disco, Twenty One Pilots
Genre: Absent Father Pete, Alternate Universe- Soccer Players, Angst, Attempt at Humor, Cheating, Crushes, Divorced Patrick, Divorced Pete, Doctor Patrick, Domestic, Drinking, Drug Addiction, Drug Use, Drugged Sex, Drunk Sex, Eventual Smut, Everything is explained real simple, F/M, Fluff, Humor, I Tried, I promise lol, Injury, Injury Recovery, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Multi, Opposites Attract, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Physical Therapy, Pining, Recreational Drug Use, Serious Injuries, Single Father Patrick, Slow Burn, Smut, Soccer Player Pete, Swearing, You don't have to know anything about soccer
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-28
Updated: 2017-08-07
Packaged: 2018-12-08 02:34:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 14
Words: 79,468
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11637132
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThatsWildPatrick/pseuds/ThatsWildPatrick
Summary: Pete Wentz is the most famous American soccer player there ever was, has been, or will be.He's a typical wunderkind: cocky, talented, and devil-may-care.He’s a millionaire- owns houses in almost every capital of the world, and buys a new supercar every month.He's a playboy, and has dated a string of women- from starlets, to actresses, to super models.Pete Wentz inspired an entire nation to love soccer, and an entire generation has grown up wearing his name on their backs, and eyes glued to his soccer matches on screens.He’s a legend in the making, and all he has to do to solidify his place in US sport history- is win a World Cup.Patrick Stumph is his doctor – a divorced, single father, who is seriously overworked and definitely does not get paid enough to deal with Pete’s bullshit.





	1. It Was The Fourth Of July

**Author's Note:**

> Here we go, new fic! I think there's a lack of Patrick doctor aus in this world, so I'm trying to contribute to the shortage. But seriously, I hope you like this and enjoy it!

 

Oddly enough, soccer had never been very popular in the US.

While the rest of the world obsessed over the sport, and it was one of the few things that united them- the people of the United States simply remained… _apathetic_. It had been that way for years; Americans much rather preferred to watch a football, baseball, or even a hockey game- and soccer was left on the sidelines. It had always been that way, and many people believed it would _always_ be that way.

However, in a twist of fate, all of that changed on July 4th 2005.

The American people had been much happier and much more willing to watch just about anything on TV, after a few beers, fireworks, and parties had lightened the mood. So, all across the country, north to south, Americans everywhere had tuned in to watch:

 

 

_LA GALAXY VS. REAL MADRID_

 

 

No one had expected much; Real Madrid was one of the most famous soccer clubs in the world, they were unbelievably rich- with hundreds of millions of euros to their name. LA Galaxy was the best the US had to offer, but they were nothing in comparison...at least, that’s what people had thought.

A few minutes later, and eyes everywhere- not just in the US, but in the world, had been fixed on TV screens, in raw disbelief.

 

 

_LA GALAXY BEATS REAL MADRID: 9 – 2  
_

 

 

Jaws hung open, eyes were wide, shock had buzzed in the air, and a love for soccer was sparked in hearts all over the USA. That match instantly went down in history, to be remembered for decades.

 

And all of that, was thanks to one man- or...to a scrawny fifteen year old kid, back then anyway:

 

 

Pete Wentz.

 

 

LA Galaxy had recently signed three players, just a couple of kids nobody had expected much of: Joe Trohman, Andy Hurley and Pete Wentz- all from humble origins in Illinois.

Or, as their fans preferred to call them after the fateful match: The best goalie in the world, the best defender in the world, and, the best striker in the world. On that warm 4th of July night, with nothing better on TV- everything had changed.

 

Over the years the soccer industry had flourished in the US. Entire generations had grown up with soccer balls at their feet, jerseys on their backs, posters in their rooms, and eyes glued to the TV every time the telltale sounds of a soccer match arrived.

 

Four clubs had come forwards as the lead players in American soccer: The Las Vegas Mobsters, the New York Red Bulls, Columbus Crew SC, and of course, LA Galaxy.

Each team had their own passionate fans, their own star players, and of course, a lot of money. The only thing that remained untouched, that had remained just out of reach, _for every_ American player, was the most prestigious cup in the world: The World Cup.

The reason it had eluded the US soccer team for so long, despite having such amazing players at their disposal, was because of the stubborn manager- who refused to put any new talent on the front lines, and instead, opted to keep close to forty, or _even_ _fifty_ , year old players, while ignoring legends in the making, and wunderkinds like Wentz, Urie, Joesph, or Way.

However this year, things would be different. A new manager, a new team- made up of all the best talent US soccer had to offer, from all the different teams, and the public was buzzing with excitement for the next world cup- Russia.

 

 

Since soccer had become such a big deal, many other professions and industries had started applying themselves to the sport- because there was a lot of money to be had.

Lawyers specialised in publicity, and tax evasion- fixing spats, infringements of privacy, or getting tax evading soccer players off scot-free, for _huge_ rewards.

Many factories opened in the US, with the sole purpose of making soccer equipment, or merchandise. There was gigantic demand, from an untapped market, and the factories kept up supply at an incredibly fast pace.

Companies started up too, making better soccer boots, making better soccer jerseys- making new technology to keep you cool, or to keep you warm. Things like materials, and equipment were being invented and improved upon all the time.

Medical professions had changed too, and many med students were advised to take, or to change, their specialisations for sports medicine, and many did just that. Some did it out of love for soccer, and with the hope that they would one day work for their favourite clubs and meet their idols- but others did it for the promise of a stable job, with a good salary.

 

Patrick Stumph had listened to that advice, he’d taken a specialisation in sports medicine- not out of any love or interest for soccer (he actually found it kind of stupid, and really boring), but out of the promise for a good job. It had taken him years to complete, and when he'd finally finished, and graduated- overjoyed with the prospect of earning good money to support his wife and newborn son- his wife had left him.

Patrick and Elisa had gotten married at nineteen and eighteen respectively because she had gotten pregnant accidentally, so Patrick supposed that already wasn’t the _best_ _start_.

And it turns out spending entire days at the university, and spending entire nights studying- only going to bed in the small hours, had taken a taxing consequence on their marriage. The worst part was that Patrick hadn’t even noticed, he’d thought everything was fine, but then one morning, his wife was stood at the front door, masses of suitcases at her feet.

 

_‘You don’t pay enough attention to me, Patrick. I'm sorry, but I deserve better.’_

 

Patrick had been at a loss for words, it had come out of the blue (but looking back on it now in retrospect, the signs had been everywhere). He’d watched his wife, Elisa, leave through the door, only to be helped with her luggage by another man- that Patrick would later learn was her _‘boyfriend’_.

They had promptly left in a ridiculously expensive-looking car, and Patrick had heard his son crying from his crib.

She’d left their son, Declan, to him, she hadn’t even fought for custody, and Patrick was grateful to her for that.

 

 

Patrick was a good doctor- a really good doctor, so much so, that he had been hired by one of the soccer giants in the country: The Las Vegas Mobsters.

He’d always thought the name was ridiculous, but it fit the players' attitudes quite well. As his son grew, and become more expensive to support, Patrick had been stressing over what to do.

 

The Las Vegas Mobsters paid decently, but there were a few cons for working for them:

  1. The manager was an asshole, and treated everyone who worked behind the scenes like total shit.
  2. Patrick wasn’t sure if raising Declan in Las Vegas was a good idea - it was the actual city of debauchery.
  3. There were rumors of the club making cuts soon, and that meant doctors would go. They had already fired three, and now there were only two left, including Patrick- which led to the next issue:
  4. Patrick was _really_ overworked.



 

So, when the biggest titans of soccer had contacted him to offer him a job, with a better salary, insurance, and the promise of a long, satisfying career- he’d said yes.

 

 

 

It was his last day in Las Vegas, and he was currently at work, doing, what would be, his last medical exams on the players, before he packed his belongings away, and went to go pick Declan up at his elementary school. All of their things would already be making their way to their new home, all the furniture they couldn't bring had been sold, and all that was left to do was make the four hour drive to their new city.

 

 

 

“I’m gonna miss you, dude!”

 

 

 

Patrick glanced up from his clipboard at the yell, watching the player sprint on a treadmill. “Thanks, Brendon.” Patrick checked the small screen on the treadmill- 10 meters left, and Brendon puffed out his cheeks and sped forwards, looking determined, but when he spoke, his exhaustion was obvious. “You tryin’ to kill me here, Stumph?”

Patrick rolled his eyes with a smile, “It’s easier if you don’t speak.” Brendon whined, but kept speeding up, and soon enough the test was over. Brendon stepped down from the treadmill, panting heavily for a few seconds before perking up again- as though nothing had happened. Patrick removed the heart rate monitors from Brendon’s chest, before quickly putting them away, ready for the next player. “Thanks, doc!”

Patrick smiled and chewed on his lip as he looked down at the clipboard, quickly noting Brendon’s results.

 

35\. 86 km/h. Not bad, not bad at all...Pretty fucking amazing, actually.

 

Patrick looked up at the beaming soccer player again, “Well, that was the last one- ergometric sprint test, _done_.” He drew a small tick on the form. “You’re done, Brendon. Free to go.”

The man nodded gratefully, and pulled his shirt over his head again. “Thanks, man!” Brendon wrapped Patrick into a quick, but bone-crushing hug, Patrick coughed a little, and gingerly patted the player’s back. “ _There, there…?_ ”

Brendon laughed, and pulled back, grabbing his rucksack and slinging it over his shoulder, he pointed at Patrick seriously. “Yo, stay in touch, dude- don’t disappear on me.” Patrick couldn’t help smiling and huffing with amusement. “Never dream of it, Urie.”  
The man smiled, broad and eyes twinkling, before he made his way out of the door, with a last shout of- "Say goodbye to Dec for me!"

Patrick moved out to the waiting room again, glancing around at all the remaining players awaiting medical tests. Some were slouched down, some were playing on their phones, and some were even asleep.

He squinted down at his clipboard. “Uh- Jon Walker?”

 

 

 

 

 

 

Patrick stood at the gates of his son’s Elementary school, hands shoved in his pockets, and holding back periodic yawns. Not many people knew it, but the board of the Las Vegas Mobsters was full of cheapskates, for god's sakes- _two_ doctors to assess the ALL the players- even the ones who sat on the bench.

Patrick’s mind reeled with the names- _Urie_ , _Walker_ , _Ross_ , _Smith_ , _Weekes_ , _Harris_ \- _oh god_ , and so many more. Six long, thorough tests for each of the 13 players (there were 25 in total, but Patrick and the other doctor tried to split the workload), and Patrick was beat...And just _thinking_ about the four hour drive ahead of him was enough to bring him to tears.

 

 

Eventually, a faint bell rang, and the school doors opened as masses of children all ran out of the building, screaming as though they were being chased by Freddy Krueger, or something.

Patrick felt a sudden, heavy impact, and stumbled back a little before looking down to see his son- grinning up at him and arms wrapped around his dad’s stomach. “Hi dad!” Patrick smiled down and laughed tiredly, “Hey, Dec.” The boy took his dad’s hand and the little boy cheerily strode next to him as Patrick led them to the car. “How was school?”

Declan’s face lit up, and he beamed up at Patrick, while bouncing, and tugging on his father’s hand.

“AWESOME! I scored THREE goals at recess! I scored ‘em just like _Wentz!_ -” He started kicking at invisible soccer balls dramatically and made explosion noises with each one.  
Patrick smiled, and nodded, feigning interest in the sport. “Wow, that’s great, buddy!...And, uh- how were your _lessons?_ ”

The boy’s face dropped and he shrugged. “Eh. boring.”

 

 

 

 

 

Patrick blinked slowly and yawned, looking up at the city that would become their new home through the windscreen. He tilted his gaze up and glanced in the rear-view mirror, smiling at the peaceful sight; Declan was asleep in the backseat, face smushed against the window, arms limp, and snoring quietly.

Patrick smiled and turned his eyes back on the road. All he wanted to do was give his son a good life, that was all that mattered. He’d thanked Elisa so many times for leaving Declan with him, Patrick didn’t think he could have bore losing his wife _AND_ his son at the same time.

Although...it still hurt of course- losing his wife, knowing she’d had an affair, and then having to explain to Declan that mommy couldn’t see him this year, because she was in Bali with _Adam_.

Patrick shook his head slightly, pushing the bitter thoughts out of his mind and quickly rooting around in the folder of house documents in the passenger seat, finding the address of their new home- _8343 South Arcadia Drive_.

 

 

 

After asking for _a lot_ of directions, and after _a lot_ of wrong turns- They had arrived.

The house was average and modest- not too small, but not too big either.

It was perfect.

The neighbourhood was pretty good too- for somewhere so close to a major city. The schools were good- preschool all the way to college, and all in all, it seemed like a great place to raise a child.

On top of that, the drive to his new workplace was mercifully short, so that was always a bonus.

 

Patrick noticed the moving truck outside the house, parked on the sidewalk, and Patrick hoped they hadn’t been waiting for him too long.

He pulled up and parked in the driveway, glancing back at his son- still soundly asleep.

Patrick got out of the car, and jogged over to the van, knocking on the driver’s window. The window rolled down with uneven shudders and scrapes, and a bald man poked his head out.

“Hey, uh- I’m sorry if I’m late-”

“Oh no, man, it’s fine- s’only been like-” The man glanced at the clock on the dashboard, “-Ten minutes.”

Patrick nodded and stepped back as the doors opened and the movers hopped out, opening the back of the van with a loud clang.

“S-Should I help, or-?”

“No, it’s fine.” Another silver-haired man trudged past him holding a box, “Just open the door, would ya?”

Patrick nodded and moved over the front door, fishing his new keys out of his pocket and unlocking it, pushing the door open wide and stepping aside to let the line of movers enter, each holding different boxes.

“Yo, you want these anywhere specific?” One younger, acne-covered guy glanced up, Patrick idly wondered if he was still in school- it certainly looked that way. Patrick shook his head, “Oh, no, just- uh, put ‘em wherever.”

Some of the men nodded, and jogged back over to the van to grab more boxes.

 

Soon enough, the back of the van was empty, and Patrick waved, watching the large vehicle pull away with a honk.

He moved over to his car, opening the door and being careful to catch Declan’s head just as it dropped without the car window for support. Patrick unbuckled the seatbelt, and picked his son up, grabbing his school bag by the strap with a free finger and shutting the car door behind him with his foot.

Patrick stepped inside their new house.

It was totally bare, other than the boxes and the necessities- like the toilet, the sink, the kitchen, but the two bedrooms were empty except for two bare, single beds in each one. Patrick hitched Declan up, before moving to what would be his son’s bedroom. He put Declan down on the mattress, hoping he hadn't awoken, and kissed him on the forehead before moving out into the living room again.

He stared down at the mountains of brown, cardboard boxes. Patrick sighed, but furrowed his brow in determination, and pulled the tape off of the seam of a box labeled ‘ _Declan_ ’.

 

Three hours later, and all the boxes were stacked, totally empty. Patrick had finally finished unpacking, and the house looked a little more full...but, they still had no furniture. He looked around, chewing his lip. Maybe he could go furniture shopping today. Would flat-packed stuff be easier? Probably, he’d just have to read the instructions, and-

 

 

“Daddy?”

 

 

Patrick turned to see Declan at the entrance to the living room. His strawberry-blonde hair was mussed up, eyelids half-closed, and he was rubbing his eyes with a balled-up fist. Patrick moved over to his son, crouching in front of him. “Sleep well buddy?”

Declan yawned quietly in response, and Patrick laughed, standing and ruffling his son’s hair. Patrick bit the inside of his cheek, and squinted, looking down at Declan thoughtfully. “You wanna come buy furniture with me?”

Declan suddenly perked up, nodding eagerly. Patrick laughed, goddamnit the kid was adorable, but he tried to look stern for a moment, raising his eyebrows.

 

“...Get your coat.”

 

Declan groaned and trudged away, before returning with his backpack, pulling a light, creased coat out of it. Patrick moved to help him put it on, but the boy made a sound of refusal- opting to do it himself.

His arms somehow got stuck, and Patrick laughed, rolling his eyes fondly as he pulled Declan’s hands through the sleeves. The boy huffed for a moment, before giving his dad a tiny smile. “Thank you.” Patrick only laughed and nodded, fishing the house and car keys from his pocket and leading Declan outside, locking the door behind them.

Patrick watched in the rear-view mirror to make sure Declan put his seatbelt on, and made a noise of approval when he heard the telltale metal ‘click’. He pulled out of the driveway, deciding that the city was their best shot at finding a furniture store. Patrick was lost in thoughts about budget, and what they really needed, when a small, happy voice chirped up from the backseat.

 

“Can we get ice cream, dad?”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 _IKEA in a mall_ \- this city was amazing.

Patrick walked around the sleek store, his son trudging behind him licking at his ice cream cone- Patrick was a total pushover. The man had made a short list of the necessities: a couch, comforters, a table, and a few chairs.

He’d saved up some money just for the purposes of furniture, and he was very grateful for the cheap, Swedish store. Patrick read a label: EKTORP $600.

Okay, maybe not so grateful after all.

 

After an hour or two, Patrick had found decently priced and reasonable quality furniture. Everything on the list was found, and he’d paid at the checkout- and paying an extra $20 dollars for IKEA employees to deliver the flat-pack boxes to his house.

 

Patrick had been leaving the store, and had turned around, suddenly feeling like something was... _missing_. Had he forgotten something on the list? Or, maybe he’d-

 

 

Shit.

 

 

Declan.

 

 

“Declan?” Patrick called, his face contorted into pure worry- eyes wide, furrowed brow, mouth open and jaw slack. Oh fuck. He’d lost his son in IKEA. Declan was as good as missing forever. He was such a bad father. “Declan?” He called again, searching around the store. His heart was thundering against his ribcage, _oh god_ , he was so irresponsible. How was it possible to forget your child?

When the calls of his son’s name didn’t help, Patrick decided to take extreme measures. _He was going to ask someone for help_. Patrick approached a middle-aged man, with a teenage girl at his heels that looked incredibly disinterested and bored.

 

“E-Excuse me?”

“No I don’t need any help, thank you.”

“Oh- oh no, I’m not an- an employee- Have you seen a little boy? Five years old? Reddish-blonde hair, pale, blue eyes? That kinda thing?”

The man smiled knowingly. “You lost your kid in IKEA, didn’t you?” Patrick gulped, and nodded. The man laughed in response, "Oh, man, I've done that too- I was in the doghouse for _weeks_ -" Patrick was trying to move the subject back to his son, but the man had insisted on telling him all about the EIGHT times he'd lost his kids in the furniture store. Patrick was getting desperate, and he was getting more and more irritated with every word, when-

 

 

“I saw a kid like that.”

 

 

Patrick’s head snapped up at the voice. The man’s daughter had a droning, fed-up voice but Patrick was relieved anyway. “Where’d he go? Did you see him?”

She pointed in a general direction, out of the store and into the swarming crowds of the mall.

 

Oh god please no.

 

“Over there, like two minutes ago.”

 

The man laughed loudly again, eyes watering. “Oh, you lost him in a _mall!_ You’re sleepin’ on the couch tonight buddy.”

Patrick laughed nervously, didn’t bother to correct the man on his relationship status, and darted away with a stuttered yell of thanks.

 

 

 

 

 

“DECLAN!”

Patrick yelled at the top of his voice, pushing his way through crowds as quickly as he could. Oh god he’d lost his son. He’d lost his son in a MALL in LA. What if he got kidnapped? What if he got murdered? Oh god, this was all Patrick’s fault-

 

“ _DECLAN!_ ”

 

Another desperate shout, and once again, no response. It wasn't like he expected one anyway, but he just had to keep shouting. He just had to. Patrick was mortified. He was terrified. He’d lost his son. _Oh god_ , when Elisa found out she’d never forgive him.

 

“DECLAN, WHERE ARE YOU?!”

 

Patrick skidded to a stop in a clearing, just in front of the Nike store. He was panting, his face was red- shoving your way through crowds _while running_ is _not_ easy.

Patrick gasped enough air into his lungs to keep an asthma attack at bay, and he was about to call his son’s name again when-

 

 

Declan.

 

In the Nike store.

 

Oh thank- fuck, oh god.

 

 

Patrick stumbled inside, receiving some odd looks at his panting, but he ignored them, trudging over to his son.

 

Declan was sat on a store bench, blue eyes wide, and locked up and forwards.

 

“Declan-”

 

Patrick inhaled and exhaled heavily, his pulse was growing calmer in his ears.

 

“What happened? Why’d you disappear like that? Do you know how much you scared me?”

Declan’s gaze snapped to his dishevelled father, and he jumped to his feet. He looked nervous, and smiled sheepishly, hunching his shoulders a little while wringing his hands anxiously. “I-I’m really sorry dad, I just...I wanted...”

 

The boy trailed off and Patrick crouched down to him, putting a gentle hand on his shoulder. “What buddy? What did you want?”

 

Declan’s head turned again, staring up and forwards with a longing look in his eyes.

Patrick looked up in the direction of his son’s gaze.

 

Oh for fuck’s sake.

 

They were soccer jerseys.

 

Declan had run away- and had _almost_ given Patrick a _heart attack_ , OR, a _panic attack_ \- _or BOTH_...for _a soccer jersey_.

 

Patrick stood, squinting at the shirts with a small scowl. “...Don’t you already have one of these?”

 

Declan sighed in exasperation. “No, dad. I told you this before-” Patrick sensed an oncoming rant of explanation. “I have an _LA Galaxy shirt_ \- that you got me, and _a Mobsters shirt_ \- that Brendon gave me.” Patrick nodded slowly, turning his gaze back to the one his son wanted.

Royal blue shoulders, red from the chest down, and a white stripe parting the vibrant colors. The Nike logo was embroidered on the left, and the US soccer badge on the right.

“And...what’s the difference with this one…?”

Declan’s eyes widened and he rolled them, sighing in disbelief, he gestured towards the jersey. “ _That’s_ a _US team_ shirt.”

Patrick nodded slowly again, furrowing his brow. “...Those are the ones that play...during the...”

 

Patrick didn’t actually know much about soccer, despite being a sports doctor.

 

“International matches.”

Declan’s arms were crossed, and he was glaring at his dad with no real venom, just exasperation.

Patrick nodded again, and stifled a sigh. “...You really want this one?”  
Declan’s face lit up and he nodded desperately. “YES! _Everyone_ at my school had one, ‘cept me! I need it for the world cup! Please dad!” He hugged Patrick, looking up with his best puppy dog eyes.

 

Goddamnit, Patrick was a pushover.

 

Declan moved away and started bouncing up and down as his dad reached up to the shirt rack.

Patrick pushed the jerseys apart, reading the names and numbers on their backs. 1 – Trohman, 3 – Hurley, 10 – Wentz, 6 – Dun-

  
“Hey, Declan, which one do you want? I don’t know these numbers or-”

 

“WENTZ!”

 

Patrick jumped a little at his son’s sudden excited squeak, and moved his gaze back to the search.

Most of the jerseys read that name- must be in high demand, Patrick thought, as he pulled out a jersey. It looked like it’d fit Declan, maybe a little on the larger side, but that way it’d last longer.

Patrick paid for it, and Declan bounced home with the jersey pressed to his chest, there were vehement squeaks of ‘ _Thank you dad!_ ’, ‘ _I love you!_ ’ and ‘ _Thank you so much!_ ’

 

 

 

 

 

 

“Are these new?”

 

“No, I’ve had ‘em since my birthday, remember? Mom bought ‘em for me.”

 

“Why haven’t you pinned them up yet?”

 

“I asked you, but you were busy with the house. So I thought I’d wait ‘til my new room!”

 

Patrick felt a pang of guilt. It was true, he’d been so busy with selling the house that he hadn’t spent much time with Declan.

He furrowed his brow. That was going to change now. He swore it.

 

The little boy handed a long, thin cylinder up to his dad, who took it and cut away the plastic cover with scissors. Declan bounced in excitement as he rolled it back, and Patrick furrowed his brow a little, and stared at the image with a tilt of his head.

Its background was gold and blue, and a soccer player was gracefully frozen in the moment of kicking a ball. The man looked calm, collected, focused, and he had a confident smirk on his face. Black hair, tanned skin, brown eyes, grass-stained kit and grazed knees- that Patrick assumed were the result of a few falls during that particular match. In the top corner was the LA Galaxy logo, and in the bottom corner were the words: ‘10’ and ‘Wentz’, along with a printed, scrawly signature.

Patrick looked up from the poster, eyes flicking to his son, who was staring at the image with a huge, ecstatic grin. Patrick smiled, “Where’d you want this one?”

 

 

“No, no- To the left. No- hang on, a little more right. Wait, wait- up! No, not _that_ up!”

Patrick tried to look at his son over his shoulder, but the boy was just out of sight.

“D’you mean ‘ _down_ ’?”

“Yeah!”

Patrick was slightly concerned his son had forgotten the word ‘down’ for a moment.

-But eventually, after a long process of shifting and straining, Declan had been happy with the placement. “Yes. Right there!”

Patrick shoved metal tacks into the four corners of the poster, and stepped away from the wall, leaning down to pick up another cylinder. Declan however, was still stood still with an overjoyed grin on his face, and eyes glued onto the poster. Patrick glanced at him as he cut another poster free from it’s plastic cover. “You really like that Wentz guy, huh?”

Declan nodded eagerly, bouncing over to his dad and helping up unfurl the new poster. “Yeah he’s the BEST! He can do the ‘ _elastico_ ’ a-and even- the ‘ _Cryuff turn_ ’- and he’s so cool! Y’know, he scored _SIX_ goals against Manchester United last week!”

 

Patrick only knew what about half of those words meant, but he smiled anyway.

 

This one was for the same team, but instead of just one player, it was the whole first squad. The one Patrick recognized as ‘Wentz’ was front and centre again, soccer ball poised under his boot. He looked confident again, but his smile was wider this time. Beside him were two other men, who Patrick assumed must have been the next most famous. One had brown hair, a ginger beard, and was covered almost head to toe in bright tattoos, he looked serious and had his arms crossed over a puffed out chest. The other had darker hair, curly but styled into an undercut of sorts, he had colorful ink sleeves too. He looked more nonchalant, posture relaxed, and gazing at the camera with, _not blank_ \- but unreadable eyes.

 

More posters came and went. Las Vegas Mobsters- Patrick recognized all the players he’d treated; All the broken legs, all the bruises, all the fractures. He smiled slightly at the sight of them, he’d been on amicable terms with all the main players in the squad, and he was sure he'd miss them.

New York Red Bulls- The whole team stood with focused eyes, but the main four stood out against the rest. One had bright red hair, another had blonde- Patrick thought they looked similar, maybe they were related. The other two stood a little behind the similar duo, one had masses of frizzy curls and the other one had dark hair, and full sleeves of dark tattoos.

Columbus Crew SC – Only the two star players against a white background. One was holding a soccer ball in his fingertips; He had black rings tattooed on his left arm, and his eyes were a little blank, yet focused. Another man was beside him, he had bright dyed hair, an entire colored sleeve that looked like a painting, and his expression was lighter, as he was smiling.

 

  
After a long positioning periods, filled with contradicting directions, courtesy of his son- The walls of Declan’s room were now fully covered with posters of his idols.

LA Galaxy, Las Vegas Mobsters, New York Red Bulls, Columbus Crew SC, and the new national team all made an appearance on the walls, and Patrick grinned at the periodic happy squeaks from his son as he gazed at each poster. He felt a sudden pressure around his stomach and grunted a little, but smiled and looked down to see Declan hugging him tightly with a face scrunched up in pure happiness.

 

“Thank you so much dad!”

 

“You’re welcome, Dec.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

“Put the metal thing into the wood thing.”

 

Patrick stared up at his son in exasperation. The little boy’s brow was furrowed as he stared down at the instruction sheet with concentration.

 

“Can you be little more specific, Dec?”

 

Declan pouted, and looked extremely thoughtful, tilting his head, and Patrick couldn’t help but smile.

The boy hummed, and showed the diagram and words to his dad with a frown. “I can’t read it.”

Patrick took the sheet and glanced over, he sighed. “No wonder- it’s all in Swedish.”

Declan tilted his head to the other side, “What’s ‘Swedish’?”

Patrick decided that he’d best continue alone, it was getting late, and Declan had school tomorrow. He stood, ushering his son to the bathroom. “Swedish is what they speak in Sweden.”

Declan made a small noise of surprised understanding as he squeezed toothpaste onto his brush, moving it to his mouth, before-

 

“What’s ‘Sweden’?”

 

“Just brush your teeth, Dec.”

 

“What is it though?” Declan said, although it was garbled by the toothbrush and foam. “Sweden is a country- Now come on, finish quick, you have school tomorrow.”

Declan brushed for a few minutes before spitting in the sink, and grinning slyly. His dad shepherded him to his bedroom, “What’s Sweden like?”

Patrick squinted slightly as he fished Declan’s pyjamas from his dresser. “Cold.”

Declan got dressed and Patrick covered him with his new comforter, tucking the boy in. “Thanks dad.” Patrick smiled at his son’s subsequent loud yawn. “No problem, buddy.” Patrick kissed his son’s forehead again, and ruffled his hair as he moved away to the door, flicking off the light with a last glance and a smile, as Declan curled up in a cocoon of his comforter.

 

 

Patrick moved to the living room again, staring at all the flat-pack boxes that awaited him. It was gonna be a long night.

 

 

 

 

 


	2. Never Meet Your Son's Heros (They're Usually Assholes)

 

Patrick was late.

 

Late for his first day of work, _goddamnit_. He'd shot out of bed, had clumsily gotten dressed and had rushed Declan out of the house, shoving a mug of cereal in his hands, and, he'd drove- as fast as was legally acceptable.

 

He’d overslept, he hadn’t set an alarm.

 

Patrick had gone to bed at 3am after spending the whole night putting together flat-pack furniture, he’d finished it all and had trudged to bed, dropping down into the springy mattress and falling soundly asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow.

_Shit, shit, shit_ \- Patrick glanced up through the window at Declan’s new Elementary school, jumping out of the car and pulling Declan out as well. The boy had insisted on wearing his new jersey today, and a rucksack bearing the Mobster's crest was hooked around his shoulders, bouncing as he ran into the school alongside his dad.

Thankfully, they were only about ten minutes late, and Declan was ushered to his new classroom by the receptionist, but not with a bone-crushing hug, a kiss on the cheek, and a mumble of encouragement from his father.

 

Patrick dove back into his car, fingers fumbling with his car keys, as he tried to jam the metal into the ignition. The car jolted to life, and he quickly drove to his workplace, cutting people off and earning angry honks.

 

Patrick was panicking. Oh god, what if he got fired before he’d even began? He’d moved to LA with Declan, and now he was gonna get fired. _Oh fuck_ , why was he _so stupid?_

 

Suddenly, Patrick saw it, and all the anxiety blanked from his mind.

 

Huge, metal and shining in the sun- The StubHub Center.

 

Yes, _awful name_ , but it didn’t matter to Patrick- he was just so happy he’d arrived in decent time.

 

Patrick leaped out of his car, sprinting to the main entrance, and stumbling to a stop at the reception. A young blonde woman stared at him from behind the desk with eyebrows raised in concern at his panting and red face. “Oh god- fu- goddamn-” Patrick’s hands were on his knees, and he was hunched over- he wasn't that out of shape, asthma just made everything ten times harder. After a few more pants, he straightened up with a groan, watching the woman’s confused expression.

“Hi, sorry, that was probably-” He exhaled heavily again, and inhaled sharply through his nose before continuing, offering the woman an explanation. “My name’s Patrick Stumph, I’m the new doctor.”

Her blue eyes widened in realization and she smiled, nodding and typing at her keyboard, peering at the computer screen with squinted eyes. “Ah yes! Here you are... _I’ll just_ call your boss.” Patrick nodded and swallowed, hoping that his new boss wouldn’t give him a hard time for being twenty minutes late.

 

 

A few minutes later, a man with grey-streaked chestnut brown hair emerged from behind the reception doors. He smiled warmly as he saw Patrick, and walked towards him, offering him a hand. Patrick took the man’s hand and shook it, smiling nervously. The older man towered above him, and Patrick guessed he must have been at least 6’3. Patrick was only 5'4. Damn his height genes, he hated being vertically challenged sometimes.

“Ah, Patrick Stumph was it?” Patrick nodded eagerly, and noticed the man’s subtle accent, idly wondering where the man was from. He smiled kindly again, dark blue eyes squinting. “I’m Christian Dahlman, I’m the head doctor here.” He motioned for Patrick to follow with his hand, opened and gesturing at the doors, the redhead trotted behind him gingerly.

“I’m glad you’ve arrived, a few players need to be seen, and their doctor had a family emergency. Everyone else is busy.”

Dr. Dahlman led Patrick into the large hospital building on the outskirts of the grounds. They entered one of the supply rooms and the older man handed him a white lab coat, and Patrick shrugged it on.

“I’m sorry I’m a little late, I stayed up last night.” The man smiled, “Any particular reason?” Patrick raised an eyebrow, and the man furrowed his brow a little. “Just wondering if it will become a regular occurrence.”

Patrick’s eyes widened immediately, “Oh n-no, I promise, I just- I moved in yesterday...I was building furniture...” Dr. Dahlman nodded with an understaning grin. “Ah yes, not that easy.” Patrick smiled and the doctor handed him more equipment. Two stethoscopes (a bell type for listening to the heart, and a diaphragm type for the lungs), that Patrick hung around his neck, and a clipboard, which he held at his side.

 

“Right, the training yard is just a little east of here, we’ll go fetch the players.”

 

 

 

 

The two strode into the training yard, stepping out onto the short, bright green grass, marked with neat, white, intricate lines. The field was set up with what Patrick assumed was training equipment: slalom poles, fluorescent cones, hurdles and flat rung ladders, strewn across the floor.

The players ran up and down the pitch, completing drills at the shrill whistles and loud shouts from their manager.

Some wore grey fleeces, and others wore yellow jerseys- but they were all sporting the club’s crest on their chests. They moved quickly, deftly, and Patrick had to admit he was a little impressed- he’d probably instantly die if he had to jump over a hurdle _that_ high.

Dr. Dahlman kept moving forwards with long, relaxed strides, and Patrick was having to walk at a faster pace, because _he_ didn’t have long-ass _spider legs_.

 

The manager looked up, his gaze freezing on the doctors for a beat. He was short, and actually quite physically small, and his booming voice didn’t match his round face at all. He walked towards them, with a last glaring glance at the players.

 

“Christian-” The manager smiled tightly. “Who do you insist on stealing this time?” They shared a quiet laugh at what Patrick assumed was their odd form of ' _banter_ ', and the head doctor glanced down at his own clipboard. “Wentz.”

 

Patrick froze.

 

_Wentz…?_ As in, Declan's idol? As in the guy who was all over Declan’s bedroom walls? As in the guy who’s name his son was wearing on his back today?

 

The manger nodded with a sigh, and turned, cupping a hand over his mouth. “WENTZ, GET YOUR SKINNY ASS OVER HERE.”

Some laughter rang from the flock of players, and soon enough, a man was pushing through the moving lines of his teammates as he gracefully jogged towards them with long strides. He stopped beside the manager with a charming smile, and Patrick noticed his eyes looked a little tired.

 

He also noticed that the guy was hot.

 

Ridiculously so.

 

The posters literally did him _no justice_.

 

Patrick literally felt like a teenage girl lusting after a jock- _yes,_ _it was that bad_.

 

“Right, well Pete, I leave you in the capable hands of our new doctor-” Dahlman clapped a hand onto Patrick’s shoulder, “-I need to talk to you about the results, Clay.” The manager nodded, “Of course, and your tone suggests it’s bad news.” The head doctor laughed, and started walking towards the benches with the manager, hand on his shoulder and speaking with a low tone.

 

Patrick's eyes were still widened at the guy. 'Pete'. Huh. He hadn't actually known his first name, because soccer players usually went by their last names, and, in truth, he hadn't cared enough to find out.

Patrick's gaze moved to Pete's eyes- whiskey-brown, wide and sparkling. His skin was tanned, and Patrick wondered if it was natural, or the result of lying on a beach for days. His arms were covered in dark tattoos, Patrick could make out a few familiar sights- Jack Skellington made an apperance on his left forearm, subtitled with the words 'Stay gold'. His gaze drifted to Pete's hair- and he noticed it was a little different from Declan's posters. An attempt to dye it had been made- that much was obvious, but the dark roots poked through stubbornly, while the strands themselves stayed light blonde. It was flicked up to the side, laced and dripping with small, clear beads of- what Patrick assumed, was sweat. He idly wondered how it looked when it was dry. Patrick's gaze moved lower- Goddamnit even his legs were hot. His fucking legs were hotter than Patrick's face- he was pretty sure-

 

 

“So- uh, are you just gonna stand there? Like, aren’t you supposed to- _examine me_ , or something? Isn't that like- what they _pay you for?_ "

 

 

Patrick gulped slightly, and smiled at the unimpressed soccer player tightly. “Y-Yeah, this way.” He motioned with his head, walking back towards the medical center and hearing clacking footsteps behind him once they stepped off of the grass, and Patrick knew it was from the cleats on the player’s boots. He'd always liked that sound, it was soothing, somehow.

 

 

 

 

 

There were six tests in a medical. Most of them involved the one being examined, being shirtless, and Patrick was equally excited and terrified at the prospect.

Pete shuffled over to the examination table, fluidly hopping up and taking a seat, staring at Patrick with irritated, and fed-up eyes. Patrick guessed he'd gone through this process a lot, he could see how it would get tiresome, getting poked and prodded at was never fun.

 

“So, uh- _legally_ , I’m supposed to tell you what the tests involve- y’know, just in case I try and like- _steal your DNA_ and _make a clone of you_ , or something.” Patrick laughed nervously at the man’s furrowed brow, contempt written all over his face.

 

“Well, _yeah_ , uh- the first test is easy, it’s just a blood test-”

 

“-Yeah, sure, whatever- just get on with it, Jesus H. Christ.”

 

 

 

Six tests. Most of them shirtless. Pete already looked annoyed, and Patrick knew it probably wouldn’t get any better. He also made a mental note to refrain from the lame dad jokes. He glanced at Pete nervously- the player was texting with a bored expression. Patrick pulled on a pair of white disposable gloves.

It was gonna be a long day.

 

 

 

Test one: Heart and Health

 

Patrick tightened the tourniquet around the tattooed arm, watching the forearm flush red as the veins and arteries bulged against the caramel coloured skin. “This is just to check if your blood’s normal, if you’re doing any drugs, etcetera.” Pete rolled his eyes, and the look reminded Patrick of a petulant toddler. This guy wasn’t making a great impression, to say the least.

Pete wrinkled his nose as Patrick prepared a syringe, holding it up to the light and flicking it with a gloved hand. “...Right...just have to find a good one...” Patrick squinted at the man’s elbow crease, running his fingers over the tender skin, and searching for a vein fat enough to draw blood from.

“Ah-hah, there we go!” Patrick smiled cheerily at a blue vein that popped up against the skin. It had to be a vein, if he punctured an artery- there'd be a blood fountain spurting from Pete's arm, and he wasn't sure that would have a great result. Not many people were as stone-cold to blood and gore as doctors were.

He glanced up for second, noting Pete’s horrified and fearful expression. The corners of Patrick’s lips twitched upwards nervously, and he took Pete’s forearm in one hand, posing the needle tip over the skin. He heard Pete inhale through gritted teeth, as he pushed the point in, and he watched the clear barrel fill with red liquid, as he pressed up on the plunger with his thumb.

Patrick pulled the bevel out, and quickly pressed a cotton ball over the small red dot. “Hold this.” Pete obliged, face still stony and eyes glinting with annoyance.

Patrick slotted the sharp bevel into a vial, pressing down on the plunger and watching the small, orange-tinted plastic tub fill with Pete’s blood. He grabbed a pen from his coat pocket, clicking and noting down the man’s name. “Wasn’t so bad was it?” Pete only glared.

 

 

Okay. It was time.

 

 

The shirt had to come off.

 

 

“Uh- c-can you, uh-” Patrick tried gesturing as the words refused to escape him, Pete only furrowed his brow and grimaced in confusion. “C-can you t-take your shirt- off, please?”

Patrick could feel himself flush red as Pete grinned suggestively with a wiggle of his eyebrows, before huffing a laugh and pulling the grey fleece and yellow shirt off in one graceful, fell swoop.

 

Patrick flushed even darker.

 

Jesus Christ on a bike.

 

Why was this happening to him? Why couldn’t they have given him an ugly, old guy- with a beer belly, preferably?

 

Pete looked like he was straight out of a gay porn magazine- or a _modelling_ magazine, if you wanted to be less... _vulgar_.

 

He literally looked like a greek statue- taught, rippling muscles in places Patrick didn’t even know it was possible to have muscles.

Wow, okay, that made him sound like an awful doctor- well, _to rephrase_ , Pete wasn’t a freak of nature with oddly placed muscles, or anything, there were just... _a lot_ of them. A dark tattoo of a necklace of thorns hung around his collarbones, and Patrick noticed the hint of black ink at the hem of his shorts. He wondered _what it was_ , and he felt himself growing warmer as his gaze moved dangerously closely to Pete's dick.

But back to the main attraction, that Patrick was _very much_ enjoying- _the muscles_. They were sharply defined under his skin and looked as firm as rocks, and, fuck- not to mention _the sweat_.

Patrick was a weak man. He was also a knowledgable man. He knew that running around, vigorously training while wearing a fleece would make any normal human being sweat- but, _holy fuck_. Pete’s entire abdomen was damp and, clear droplets of sweat hid between the ridges. Patrick was so screwed. Jesus, maybe he should have just stayed in-

 

 

“Are you gonna just- like, _stare_ _at me_ , all day?”

 

 

Patrick’s eyes widened and they flicked up to Pete’s irritated face. “I have stuff to do man, c’mon. Get a move on.” Patrick coughed a little and untangled the stethoscope from his neck, but Pete continued his grumbling. “You were already _late_ today, and then you just take your time like that? Jesus, I should tell Dahlman, you’re awful.”

Patrick winced and quickly pressed the cold diaphragm of the stethoscope over Pete’s back, just between his sharp shoulder blades, searching for his heart, wiggling the earbuds into his ears and listening intently, trying to count the beats in a minute, while timing with his watch.

 

 

“-Like, really, who’s _late_ on their _first day?_ You _suck_ , why’d they even hire you?-”

 

 

“Can you be quiet, please?”

 

Patrick furrowed his brow and stared at the man. This guy was already shaping up to be an asshole and between the cutting insults and the constant chattering, Patrick found himself growing annoyed. “I’m trying to count your heartbeats. I need silence.”

 

Pete’s lip curled, shocked anger glinting through his eyes- it was obvious he wasn't used to being 'shushed'- but he shrugged, looking bored and tuned-out.

 

“ _Thank you_.”

 

Patrick shook his head and resumed his counting- “40 beats per minute.” Patrick said slowly as he noted the time down on the form. “That’s great. You must be really healthy.” Patrick’s voice was deadpan, as he shuffled the other bell stethoscope from his shoulders. Pete scoffed, “I’m a professional athlete, _what_ _did you expect_?” He ended with a goofy, sarcastic and mocking voice. Patrick bit his tongue and cleared his throat, pressing the new stethoscope to Pete’s back again and carefully listening to his lungs- smirking when Pete jolted and cursed at the cold metal.

 

His lungs were perfect. _Of course_ they were.

 

 

 

Test 2: Musculoskeletal stability

 

“This is to check your weak bones, make sure you’re not gonna fall apart.”

 

“None of my bones are _weak_ , dude.”

 

Patrick blinked slowly, and pinched the bridge of his nose, while stifling a sigh. “Yes, they are. All humans have weak spots-”

 

“Well what are they? ‘Cause they feel pretty strong to me, you wanna feel?” Pete balled up his hand into a fist, knuckles prominent and hard under his skin, bicep bulging as he held it over Patrick’s face with a scowl. Patrick flinched a little at the sudden confrotation, but exhaled. “Your lumbar-” Pete dropped his fist and his face contorted into skepticism. “That’s not a real thing.”

 

“- _Who’s_ the doctor here?”

 

Silence.

 

Goddamn right.

 

“Exactly. Anyway, your lumbar is in your lower back, it’s part of your spine. _You know what a spine is?_ ”

 

He felt satisfied at the dark look he recieved, and he confidently smirked in the face of Pete’s glare.

 

“The other is your pelvic bone-”

 

“Is that where your dick is?”

 

Patrick exhaled heavily.

 

“Yes, it is."

 

Pete raised his eyebrows and he gave a suggestive half-smile, biting his lip. Patrick flushed again. “And, how’d you...test _that_?”

Patrick did his best to ignore the very arousing expression on Pete’s face and glared, before smiling sarcastically-sweetly, squinting and tilting his head.

 

“With an X-ray. And a couple of lunges.”

 

 

Even his fucking bones were perfect.

 

 

 

Test 3: Isokinetic issues

 

“This is to figure out what the weaknesses in your muscles are-”

“I’m pretty sure we’ve established _there are no_ weaknesses-”

“-And I’m pretty sure I’ve told you there _are_.”

 

Pete looked skeptical, raising an eyebrow lazily.

 

“Hamstrings and quads are most predisposed to injury, we'll test _them_ first.”

 

 

Patrick sat between Pete’s legs.

 

Yes, he knew how that sounded.

 

He also knew how that looked.

 

And yes, his face was flushed red.

 

_Constantly_.

 

This was one of the most touchy-feely tests, and while Patrick had had no problem with it before- it was definitely bothering him right now.

His slender, plastic-clad fingers were digging into the ridges of Pete’s thighs, pressing, poking and testing for uneven weaknesses as Pete tensed his thigh as hard as he could.

 

 

“If I get a boner don’t get too proud of yourself.”

 

 

Patrick choked, coughing into his fist. He looked up at Pete with wide, horrified, yet questioning eyes and watched the man’s amused smirk. He was enjoying this. This- cruel, _merciless_ teasing.

 

 

“I have a thing for pain- it’s definitely not _you_.”

 

 

Patrick was a little insulted, if he was honest- And that was also _way too much_ information.

He cleared his throat a little and went back to his examination, trying to keep his eyes away from Pete’s dick.

 

He may have faltered once.

 

Or maybe twice.

 

Maybe three times.

 

...Patrick was so screwed.

 

 

  
Test 4: Deep scanning

 

“This is just to check your muscles-”

 

“You’re checking out my muscles a lot.”

 

“-And your joints.” Patrick finished with an unamused expression at Pete’s innuendo.

 

Patrick grabbed a bottle of ultrasound gel, squirting some into his gloved palm and spreading it over Pete’s knees. The redhead pulled the machine's screen closer, and pressed the ultrasound transducer over Pete's left knee first, circling it and watching the screen intently.

 

“...My knees aren’t pregnant, dude.”

 

Patrick only glared, stifling a sigh. “This checks for cracks. Ultrasounds aren’t just for looking at babies.”

 

“... _Whatever_...”

 

Patrick only exhaled, pressing more gel into his hands and rubbing it over Pete’s shoulder and elbow joints. He ran the transducer over the toned, taut shoulders, and then over the prominent elbows.

 

No cracks, no deformities- Pete was perfect again.

 

 

 

Test 5: Body fat score

 

“So what is this?”

“Bioelectrical Impedance technology.”

“...What?”

“Just hold _these_ things. _Tightly_ , please.”

Patrick handed Pete the electrodes, before turning on the machine, and it promptly started to buzz. Pete jolted in surprise, and Patrick stifled a laugh. “ _Ugh_ , what the fuck is that?” He rolled his shoulders, sounding geniunely disgusted. “Feels so weird.”

“It's just electric currents going through-”

“You’re electrocuting me?!” Pete’s eyes widened in panic and he made a move to drop the electrodes. Patrick stopped him, grabbing his wrists with stern eyes.

“...No. Just- just _hold_ _the things_ please.”

Pete looked nervous and a little fearful, so Patrick tried softening. He tilted his head and raised his eyebrows. “Just trust me. It’s fine.”

Pete gulped but his face hardened, and he nodded, averting his gaze and gripping the electrodes again.

 

Patrick looked at the small screen, and jotted down the results- _9% body fat_.

 

Of course he was, you don't have a body _like that_ for nothing.

 

 

 

Test 6: Ergometric sprint test

 

“Twenty meters, and I want you to run as fast as you can.”

Patrick pushed the buttons on the treadmill, setting up the distance for the test.

Pete stepped onto the treadmill, and Patrick covered his chest with three heart rate monitors- two over each lung, and one over his heart.

“Do you have asthma, or any lung- respiratory issues?” Pete shook his head, face nonchalant. Patrick chewed on his lip, he didn’t want Pete to pass out or something, that wouldn’t be ideal on his first day. Or ever. He didn't want to accidentally kill America's soccer-sweetheart.

He picked up an oxygen mask and passed it to Pete. “Over your mouth, deep breaths.” Pete rolled his eyes exasperatedly but slid the mask on, tugging it into place and raising an eyebrow. “Are we good now?” Patrick nodded.

“Three,” His pale finger rested over the start button. “Two,” Pete furrowed his brow, narrowing his eyes and bracing himself, readying his body to start running at a moment’s notice.

 

“One.”

 

The machine burst to life and Pete along with it.

  
Patrick watched him, his jaw felt a little slack. Pete darted forwards, footfalls fluid and speeding. Patrick could see the prominent vein in Pete’s neck, and he knew adrenaline was probably coursing through his system- also evidenced by his blown pupils. The frantic footsteps echoed against the treadmill’s rubber, the steady pitter-patter of his soles filling the room.

Pete’s back, shoulders and hips twisted gracefully every stride he took, and Patrick couldn’t stop staring, it was _fucking_ _mesmerizing_.

Patrick idly wondered what Pete would look like on pitch, during an _actual game_ ; Dribbling the ball as though it were magnetized to his feet, face covered with concentration as he fought off defenders, flicking the ball skilfully over their heads and between their legs- watching them curse in rage, with a smirk painting his face.

Patrick shook himself from his thoughts, looking over at the screen- _2 meters left_.

Soon enough, the treadmill beeped as the 20 meters were met, and the tread slowed to a stop. Pete’s sprint slowed into a jog, and he came to a nimble stop too, looking over at Patrick with raised eyebrows and aloof eyes.

“We done now?” His voice was muffled by the mask, and Patrick exhaled sharply- he really hated being pushed around and rushed.

Sure, the guy was hot, but the personality _was not_. Patrick was actually a little worried that Pete was his son’s idol- he didn’t seem like a great role model.

Patrick shook his head, “Hang on, I gotta write it down.” He squinted at the screen, before his eyes widened and he gaped a little.

 

 

39\. 58 km/h.

 

 

Holy shit.

 

  
That was the fastest speed he’d ever seen.

 

Pete smirked at Patrick’s expression, pointing at himself with his thumbs. “Fastest recorded player ever- right here baby.”

The awe on Patrick’s face dropped at the brash, bragging voice, and he rolled his eyes.

“You’re done. You passed, good job.” Patrick said in the most deadpan voice he could muster as he jotted down the result. Pete tore the mask off carelessly, tossing it on the examination table. He grabbed his shirt and fleece, pulling them both back on, and striding out with a last nonchalant stare at Patrick- without a word.

 

  
This guy was a dick.

 

 

A _hot_ dick.

 

 

But still a dick.

 

 

Patrick reset everything for the next player’s test, and he poked his head out of the door, spotting two other men sat in the waiting room, idly staring down at their phones.

Patrick cleared his throat and they both looked up- they were the same guys from Declan’s poster, the ones that had stood by Wentz.

 

“Uh- who’s been waiting longer?”

 

They both motioned to the bearded guy and Patrick nodded. “What’s your name?”

“Andy Hurley.” Patrick smiled, much like the manager- the voice didn’t fit the appearance. High pitched and soft, to, tattooed and broad.

“Come on in.” The man moved into the room past him, and Patrick stared at the other guy in the waiting room. “By the way, what’re _you_ _called?_ ” The guy looked a little surprised that the redhead didn't know his name, but he answered anyway.

“Joe Trohman.”

Patrick nodded and made to move back into the examination room when-

 

“Hey what’s _your_ name, man?”

 

Patrick was a little surprised too. Most soccer players didn’t even bother asking the doctor’s names.

“...Patrick Stumph.”

Joe smiled, “Nice to meet you, dude.”

Patrick smiled back, and nodded- “Likewise.” before ducking back through the door.

 

 

 

 

 

“So, good first day, Dr. Stumph?” Dr. Dahlman smiled at him, as Patrick nursed a cup of black coffee, and read over the day's reports. He cleared his throat a little, slumping back into his chair. “Yeah, actually.”

Sure, Pete had been an asshole, but Andy and Joe had been total saints. And everyone else he'd treated that day had been amicable, if not- downright _friendly_.

Another doctor- Dr. Sonia Borisova, watched him from across the room with squinted eyes, and she looked thoughtful, tilting her head and flicking her gaze to Dr. Dahlman.

 

“Does he have his assignments yet?”

 

The older man’s eyes suddenly widened in realization, and he snapped his fingers. “No, I haven’t- oh, I forgot, I was so busy- _hang on_...” He trailed off, turning and rooting through a folder that lay on top of a filing cabinet. “Here we are.” He mumbled, as he opened the folder and rooted through, reading thoughtfully as his eyes flicked back and forth rhythmically over the lines.

Patrick furrowed his brow. “What d’you mean ‘ _assignments_ ’? Like... _homework?_ ”

Dr. Borisova laughed quietly, and shook her head. Dr. Dahlman promptly spoke up to explain, looking up from the folder. “Every week we have to check up on a few players, not many- usually about three or four for each doctor.” He paused for a second, looking down again, but Patrick was only more confused, they hadn’t had anything like this in Las Vegas.

 

“Well...what am I supposed to _do?_ ”

 

Dr. Borisova ran a hand through her hair, sipping her own black coffee, before raising her eyebrows and answering him. “Check they're eating properly, take a few blood samples, make sure they’re exercising, make sure they're sleeping well, no drinking, no drugs- basically, just mothering them.”

Patrick furrowed his brow again, “Is that _really necessary?_ I mean- they’re _adults_ , for god's sakes.”

The head doctor exhaled with a noise of understanding. “I thought the same, at first, but- we have some of the best players in the world at this club, we have to take care of them.”

Patrick was still a little unconvinced, but he knew arguing would be fruitless.

 

Dahlman smiled and shook the folder, holding it up and nodding towards the redhead.

“You have three charges-”

Patrick listened attentively, he hoped he'd get some chilled out, friendly, vegan that didn't drink or smoke- basically like Andy.

“Because of your skill and good references, we assigned you to Trohman and Hurley- that was going to be all, but-”

The man tilted his head and raised his eyebrows.

“But, we had a special request, one of the players asked for you specifically. And, well, we couldn't very well refuse _him_.”

 

If Patrick’s suspicions were correct, he was going to be so pissed.

 

“Wentz-”

 

Please god no.

 

“... _Why_...?” Patrick could only manage the tiny word in a strained voice, eyes wide and pleading.

 

Dahlman shrugged, “I don’t know, but he’s our star striker- we can’t say no to him.” The older man smiled. "He must have taken a liking to you- you should be flattered."

 

Patrick pinched the bridge of his nose.

 

Why.

 

Why him.

 

Actually why.

 

What had he done to deserve this.

 

Dr. Borisova spoke up again, throwing her cup away in the trash. “You’ll have to visit them once a week, and, seriously, write it _down_ , don’t forget.” She informed him, just as Dr. Dahlman passed Patrick a timetable.

 

_Monday – Joe Trohman_

 

_Wednesday – Andy Hurley_

 

_Friday – Pete Wentz_

 

 

Patrick tried not to groan.

 

 


	3. Your Heroes Do Drugs

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eyy, Brendon Urie quote. Also, sorry this took a little while longer to publish, it ended up being longer than I bargined for- I guess it was 'more than I bargained for' eyy references. I'm also sick, so that didn't help. Thank you to everyone who's reading! I'm amazed this fic is actually already getting such an awesome reception.

 

Patrick glared at the poster on Declan’s wall as he folded another small shirt, placing it into his son’s dresser neatly. Pete’s confident smirk stared down at him, and Patrick felt as though the image was actually watching him, he swore he could feel those annoying, brown eyes locked on him- judging him silently.

 

In truth, he hadn’t really thought that Pete had liked him very much, so the fact that he’d asked for Patrick _specifically_ had come as a huge surprise.

 

Patrick put the last shirt into the dresser’s middle drawer, and slid it closed, leaving the room with one last glower at the man on the wall. There wasn't much to do after test days; The admin workers were still logging the results into some database, and the blood test samples were still being tested- so Patrick had some free time...And he would have had even _more_ free time if Pete Wentz wasn’t such a selfish prick.

Over the course of the lazy, free week, Patrick would still have to visit and check up on his three charges. He assumed that Hurley would be quick and easy to deal with, and he knew Trohman was amicable and would probably be simple too- But what really worried him was _Wentz_.

 

Patrick had done some research into the player, because it was good to have an idea as to what he was getting into exactly. He’d watched interviews, adverts, fights, and compilations of his best goals- and the result had been just about what Patrick had expected.

In the interviews, he was cocky, and if he was in a bad mood or tired, he tended to be really rude to the interviewer. However, watching Pete have so many tantrums and rants had helped Patrick note down a few signals to tell him when the player was mad- and when he was about to get _really angry_.

His eyes would squint, he’d avoid eye contact, he’d exhale sharply, and his eyes would glaze over in a glare. Those were good signs to know, Patrick supposed- it would give him fair warning to distance himself before Pete tried to punch him in the face.

 

The adverts were as expected too, and he’d done them for Nike, the club itself, and for a few other sponsors- but the fights, well, _the fights_ were... _something else_ , and it really showed Patrick what Pete’s body language was like just before he got physical. Patrick had actually found himself taking notes down in a small notepad, and much to his surprise, unlike most people- who tensed their whole bodies when they got mad, Pete actually _relaxed_ before he struck.

He’d lure his rival into a false sense of security with a light voice, raised eyebrows, friendly gestures and a relaxed posture, before striking hard and fast like a snake. Many players had ended up with broken noses from their confrontations with Pete, and as Patrick watched the videos of the unfortunate rivals rolling around on the grass, scrabbling at their bleeding faces- he made a mental note to get the hell away if Pete ever relaxed his posture too much.

 

Despite his career choice, Patrick had never really seen the point of soccer- it was just eleven guys kicking a ball around to each other, trying to get it into a net, and it had just always seemed kind of pathetic and dumb to him, even since he was a kid. He'd watched that match on the fourth of July when he was 13, and it hadn't impressed him that much, and the next day when all the kids at school were playing trying to play soccer with american footballs, volleyball balls, and even tennis balls, he'd just sat on the sidelines.

 

...But, he had to admit, when he’d actually watched the compilations the night before- _Jesus_ , he understood why _Pete_ had captured the nation’s hearts back in 2005.

 

He was mesmerizing- downright transfixing really. Between the way he moved- as fast as lightning and as graceful as a dancer, and the way he weaved, flicked and threaded the ball through, past and over his opponents was incredible. He was talented, that much would have been obvious to even a _blind man_.

 

One of his most famous goals- and the one that had most amazed Patrick, had been born out of the desperation to win a neck-and-neck match, with an arduous score of 3-3 that had lasted 60 minutes.

 

2008, Germany, LA Galaxy vs Bayern Munich. Pete had dribbled the ball to their own net, scaring everyone- teammates and fans alike, that he’d lost his mind and was going to score an own-goal. But instead, in a move _nobody_ saw coming- he'd led the opposing defenders away from their positions, into a sense of ease and mirth at the stupid American kid who was going to make his team lose with an own goal- but then, at the very last minute, he'd flicked the ball out of their own net just before it crossed the white line.

He'd kicked it up into the air with a loud thud, before sprinting at full pelt back down the pitch past the dazed defenders, catching it to his feet again and scoring with no opposition- not even from the goalie, who had left his post in a false sense of security.

It had been risky, but _goddamn_ was it amazing.

It was the first time Patrick had really understood why the nation was in love with soccer- and why they were in love with Pete Wentz.

 

He'd sighed, shutting the laptop lid and furrowing his brow, thinking about the week ahead of him.

 

Three days. Three players.

 

Easy.

 

 

 

 

 

Monday – 1st Subject: Joe Trohman

 

 

It was Monday morning, and Patrick was due to head over to Trohman’s house.

He’d left Declan at school, and had watched him run away to his lessons, being shepherded by his teacher with a shout of- “Bye dad!” from the boy.

Patrick was sat in his car in the school parking lot, reading through the medical forms and checkboxes he had to complete with Trohman. It was pretty easy, and it was basically along the lines of- make sure they’re happy and healthy, if they’re not, _fix it_.

He ran a finger under the player’s address- _704 N. Halifax Drive_. Patrick then fished his phone out of his pocket, and typed out a quick text, asking Trohman if now was a good time.

 

 

 

As Patrick drove up to what some passers-by had informed him, _was_ the right address, and the redhead came to a stop at a tall, black, wrought iron gate, with an intercom attached to a brick post.

Patrick swallowed slightly as he rolled down the window, poking his top half out of the car window and struggling to reach the button. He’d parked too far away, and he had short arms- not the best, or, _ideal_ , combination for this particular situation.

As the window glass cut into his hips, he strained and finally jabbed the button with an outstretched index finger, grunting as he dropped back into his car.

_Yes_ , he knew he could have just _gotten out_ , but it was Monday morning, and Patrick was _very lazy_ on Monday mornings.

 

 

“Hello?”

 

 

A buzzed voice came from the intercom, and Patrick whined, leaning out of the gap again. “Hey, uh- it’s your doctor- I’m here for the... _the_ _check up_ …?”

 

“Oh, yeah! Patrick right?”

 

Patrick's eyebrows shot up- he was shocked that Trohman had actually remembered his name. “Uh...Yeah.”

 

“Come on in, dude.” A loud buzz rang out and the gates opened automatically, Patrick quickly accelerated, driving through the gap and then looking back a moment later- watching them close. He hoped he never got caught between them- that'd be fucking terrifying.

 

Trohman’s house was big- Like _really_ big.

It sat at the top of a long, steep drive, and it was lined with grey, cobblestone, and white-painted brick walls, and the roof was tiled with grey slate. There were three storeys, and more windows than Patrick was willing to count right now. A few plants climbed up the walls, gripping to the brick, and the whole place was framed with green, neatly mowed grass and tall, thick oak trees. It basically looked like an overgrown ‘ _Apple-Pie_ - _American-dream_ ’ type family home.

Patrick stepped out of the car, eyes wide, and still surveying the house. He walked over to the door, rapping on the chestnut wood with his knuckles, and a few moments later the door swung open, and instead of the fully grown soccer player Patrick had been expecting- there was a blonde little girl instead, that couldn’t have been more than 7.

“Hello!” She grinned up at Patrick, who just smiled tightly. “Hey, uh- is your _dad_ -”

 

“Ruby, what have I told you about answering the door?”

 

Trohman suddenly appeared behind the gap, opening it further while staring down at his daughter sternly. The little girl sighed, and rolled her eyes. “ _Not_ to.” Trohman put a hand on his daughter’s head, ruffling her hair and making her giggle but groan at the same time, darting away while trying to fix the strands.

“Come in man, good to see you.” Trohman stepped to the side, motioning for Patrick to enter with an outstretched hand at his house's main hall.

Patrick followed him inside, and they stepped into the lounge, which was open-plan and connected to the kitchen. Patrick’s eyes widened when he noticed Hurley drinking from a mug, placidly leaning against a counter, while nodding at Patrick in greeting. The redhead looked over at the TV and noticed a paused match of some boxing videogame, and he felt slightly bad that he’d interrupted them

 

“So, what’s first?” Trohman asked, with a small tilt of his head, and Patrick quickly looked down into his folder. “Uh...A blood test.” The man laughed, “Jesus, you’d think you guys were vampires or something.”

“Uh- um, I’m sorry about that, Mr. Trohman, I mean-”

“Dude, just call me Joe. Mr. Trohman’s my dad.”

Patrick nodded, and he had to admit- he was a little surprised. In his experience most soccer players weren’t this friendly, and sometimes downright refused to be on a first-name basis. Sure, he’d gotten lucky with the guys at the Mobsters, but he’d been at some really shitty clubs- with some really nasty players, before that.

 

“It’s fine man, let’s get it over with.”

 

 

 

Joe sat on a white, wooden stool at the sleek breakfast bar with a tourniquet around his arm, while Andy watched them curiously, and the three men made small talk as Patrick pulled on a pair of disposable gloves.

“Is that really necessary, dude?” Joe nodded at the gloves, “S’just an injection, right?”

Patrick refrained from correcting Joe- but _for the record_ , it was a _syringe_ , not an _injection_. He shrugged lightly. “It’s just in case there’s a virus on my hands or something-” He took the safety plastic off of the bevel of the syringe, squinting at it as he held it up to a sunbeam.

Patrick held Joe’s forearm carefully, grateful that Joe had a great deal of visible veins. “-Don’t want to accidentally _kill_ America’s best goalie.” He huffed quietly, and listened to Joe and Andy’s laughter ring through the kitchen.

Just as Patrick was about to press the point into Joe’s skin, a loud voice made the three jolt.

 

 

“Dad! Can I have a-?”

 

 

Ruby had jumped up to cling to her father’s shoulders, but her face had dropped and paled at the sight of the needle. She whimpered slightly, dropping down and snuggling herself under her dad’s free arm, and burying her face into his side, cracking an eye open to watching the syringe. The men laughed quietly at her look of pure horror, as Patrick stabbed the bevel through Joe's skin.

In- _what Patrick assumed_ ,  was some sense of morbid curiosity, Ruby stayed and had intently watched the barrel fill with blood. To Patrick’s surprise- _and relief_ , Joe didn’t grunt, tense or jump at the pain, he only smiled kindly as he held the cotton ball over the pinprick. He ruffled his daughter’s hair again, and laughed when she groaned.

“See, it’s not _that_ bad, Ruby.” The girl looked unconvinced, and looked bothered by something. Much how Patrick could read Declan’s mind- Joe could read Ruby’s, and he promptly tried to fix the somber expression along with a fond roll of his eyes.

 

“ _What were you gonna ask?_ ”

 

“...Can I have a pony?”

 

Andy hid a laugh behind his fist, and Patrick’s lips twitched upwards. “Oh, good luck with that one, Joe.” Andy said in a low voice, shaking his head while rinsing the mug in the porcelain sink. Joe’s mouth hung open and his eyes were darting back and forth thoughtfully, he stuttered a little, before responding to the request with the safest response possible.

 

 

  
“Go ask your mom.”

 

 

 

The three men laughter grew even louder at the girl’s joyful squeal as she darted away, frantically yelling for her mom.

 

 

 

“Well, that’s it.” Patrick noted down the results of the breathalyser- there was a tiny concentration of alcohol, but Joe had assured him it was just a beer, and that it was _not_ a regular occurrence.

“Great, thanks Patrick.” The redhead nodded, putting away the last piece of equipment. Joe had passed with flying colors; He was healthy, he was eating well, he was sleeping well and _very_ importantly- he was emotionally well.

Patrick smiled, grabbing his bag and signing a few medical forms, before stuffing them neatly into a folder, and looking up at Joe.

“No problem, Joe. Glad you’re doing well, makes my job easier anyway.” They shared a laugh and started moving towards the front door, but not before Patrick nodded over at Andy, who was leaning on a counter. “I’ll see you Wednesday. 5 o'clock.” The man nodded with a friendly smile, and a small salute. “’Til then, man.”

 

Joe waved as Patrick ducked back into his car and drove back down the drive, one hand on the steering wheel and the other scratching behind his ear as the car quickly passed through the opening gates. That was Patrick’s habit when he was deep in concentration, some people found it annoying, others found it endearing- He was just mad at the small bruise it would cause when he'd worry too much.

 

 

 

Patrick went to bed late that night exhausted, dropping asleep with his buried his face in the pillow, drifting off to sleep with his mind buzzing with medical results and blood alcohol concentration numbers.

 

 

 

 

 

Wednesday – 2nd Subject: Andy Hurley

 

 

Patrick waved at Declan with a kind smile. Since Patrick had finished all his due work on Monday, he’d had some free time, and had taken Declan out to park, indulging him by playing soccer. Patrick wasn’t very good, but his son didn't seem to mind at all, and he'd been laughing, overjoyed, since. He was really glad he was getting to spend more time with Declan, because between work and moving states, he’d been really busy- and he’d really missed spending time with his son.

 

 

_533 North Marshall St._

 

 

Patrick was sat in his car again, sipping a _way-too-expensive_ drink from Starbucks, and running his index finger along the address.

He had to check up on Andy Hurley today, and he was pretty sure it would be a quick and easy process. Patrick knew, from the medical information sheets he’d studied on his first day, that Andy didn’t drink, smoke, and had no history of drug use. On top of that he was a vegan, and was one of the only LA Galaxy players who insisted on working out three times a day.

 

 

Patrick pulled up to Andy’s house, and he had a feeling this whole _soccer-player’s-houses_ thing was just going to just get more ridiculous, and impressive with each one he encountered.

Andy’s house was contemporary, and it resembled large, rectangle boxes stacked on top of each other. All the windows were floor-to-ceiling and they were totally clear- shining with cleanliness, making Patrick idly wonder if Andy had a cleaner, or if he was just a neat guy. The walls were either matte grey, or panelled horizontally with wooden planks, and Patrick noticed it was a little smaller than Joe’s, and he idly assumed that was due to Joe having a family.

 

Patrick stepped up to the front door, knocking quickly, and only a few seconds later- the door opened, and Andy smiled at him amicably, letting him pass with a greeting of- “Hey, man, how are you?”

"Fine thanks, how're you doing?"

"Pretty great, thanks."

 

Patrick looked around, the house was an odd, yet admittedly, _pretty cool_ mix of rustic and modern, and all these insanely amazing houses were making Patrick feel a little bad about his small bungalow, slotted between even more rows of unremarkable, identical houses.

 

 

 

“Does anyone live here with you?”

Patrick looked down at his clipboard, pen poised. The first test he decided to run on Andy was a quick update on his life/emotional status, and it _did_ worry him a little that the soccer player lived alone. Sure, he understood it was a perfectly normal thing, but humans needed _daily_ human interaction, and he didn’t want Andy ever isolating himself away. Thankfully though, if that _did_ ever happen, Patrick also had psychology degree- it had been a pretty short course at his local college right after he'd left high school, and happily, it qualified him to be a therapist.

 

Andy shrugged lightly, and shook his head. “No, I live alone. It’s pretty good though, I get to have really loud Star Wars marathons.” They shared a laugh, and the conversation quickly moved onto their shared interest in the franchise- And soon enough, Patrick had quickly deemed Andy in an excellent mental state, so, clearing his worries away, he decided to move onto the next test- checking his pulse and breathing.

 

Patrick pressed the first stethoscope to the brightly-inked back, listening intently and counting the beats. 39 bpm- impressive. If Andy wasn’t an athlete he’d be a little worried about a heart rate that low, but since he was a professional- Patrick deemed it fine, and quickly noted it down before pressing the diaphragm stethoscope to Andy’s back again.

 

“Inhale.”

 

Andy inhaled deeply through his nose, chest puffing up and spine straightening.

 

“And exhale.”

 

The man exhaled through his mouth, slightly slouching again.

 

Patrick nodded, writing down a quick note on the form. His lungs sounded totally clear, and Patrick could happily be 99.9% sure, that they were completely healthy.

 

 

Andy nodded at Patrick in farewell as the redhead smiled back, ducking into his car, and driving away. Two assignments down, one to go- this week was going great, and he’d be free for the weekend before he even knew it.

 

 

 

 

 

Friday – 3rd Subject: Pete Wentz

 

 

Patrick had been dreading Friday- and that actually freaked him out a little, because Fridays used to be his favourite day of the working week. Fucking Pete Wentz had ruined Fridays for him, _great_ , what next? Was he gonna ruin _puppies_ for him too?

As he watched Declan canter away to his classmates, he wondered how the boy would react to his father’s job. What would he say if he found out his dad was _contractually-bound_ to visit the legendary ‘ _Wentz_ ’ every Friday? Patrick had a vague idea, and it involved a lot of pleading to meet his idol- which Patrick wasn’t very fond of.

At discovering Pete was a _total asshole_ , he’d been a little worried that the guy was the hero of so many kids- just like Declan, and Patrick sincerely hoped that they wouldn’t follow his examples.

 

 

For the third time this week, Patrick sat in his car, reading over medical forms and information sheets.

 

_127 West Santa Clara Ave._

 

Patrick wasn’t sure where that was, so he tried asking directions. He got out of his car approached an older looking couple who were strolling down the sidewalk with- what Patrick assumed, were their grandchildren.

 

“Excuse me, sorry to bother you-”

 

Patrick began with a nervous, yet kind smile, while grasping the sheet in his hands. The duo simply stopped, staring at him with raised brows and mildly inquisitive eyes.

“-But d’you know where- West Santa Clara, is?”

The old woman spoke up first, “Oh yes, dear-” and then proceeded to give Patrick downright _harrowing_ directions. It was on the edge of the city, at the top of a fucking mountain- and not to mention, _really fucking far away_ , of course it was, Pete was even a selfish prick in his housing locations.

Patrick looked paler when the exchange ended, but he thanked them for their time anyway, and moved back to his car, dropping into the driver’s seat with a sigh. He furrowed his brow, hands gripping the steering wheel, and knuckles turning purely white, before growling and starting the car with a bad attitude.

 

Whatever. The sooner this was over- the better.

 

 

 

 

Pete Wentz had the largest house. Of course he did.

 

Patrick actually gaped as he drove up to it, it was the biggest house he’d ever seen with his own two eyes. It was modern, and unmistakable- through and through. White, and sleek with huge windows, surrounded by trees, and totally isolated from any neighbours for miles- and with an excessively large pool filled with sparkling, teal water- it’s edge overlooking the cliff.

 

 

Oh yeah, _the cliff_.

 

 

Had Patrick mentioned _the_ _cliff?_

 

 

He had to admit, the downright _dangerous_ and _stupid_ placement of the house was exactly what he would have expected from someone like Pete. And while he’d felt his own house was a little- okay, maybe A LOT, inadequate over this past week, he was actually very grateful that his cosy, little house was placed firmly on the ground, and was safely stable- not hanging off the edge of _a cliff_.

 

Patrick got out of his car, heading towards the front door. He knocked. Nothing. Patrick waited a few minutes before trying again. Nothing once again. This continued for a while, and Patrick was almost about to either _leave_ , or _break in_ , when the door swung open to a small gap.

 

A woman stared back at him, with annoyed and bored eyes. She was only dressed in a man’s shirt that was oversized on her small frame. She was tall- taller than Patrick, but then again, just about _everyone_ was. Her skin was tanned and her mousey-brown beach-hair fell over her shoulders. Patrick was fairly sure this was Pete’s girlfriend- the model that popped up on the TV screen every now and then.

 

“Who are _you?_ ” Her voice was irritated and drawling, making Patrick exhale quietly, “I’m Pete’s doctor, I was told to check up on him.”

“You’re not the usual guy- the ugly one, do y’know him?”

 

No, Patrick did not know ‘ _the ugly one_ ’, but he could only assume he was Pete’s old doctor. “No, I’m new, I actually _just moved_ to-”

 

“I literally couldn’t care less.”

 

She stepped aside with a roll of her eyes, letting him pass, before stalking away with a strut, leaving Patrick in the middle of the hall, glancing around nervously and very confused.

He decided that his best bet was to search for Pete, so he gingerly started wondering around, peeking into different rooms and scanning them for the soccer player.

Eventually, Patrick had climbed up to the third floor, and had come to a stop in front of a large, fibreglass door. He carefully pushed down on the handle, and opened the door a fraction, peeking his head through the small gap.

 

 

_There_ he was.

 

Patrick saw Pete sprawled out on his side of the bed, lying face down, face smushed into the pillow, and only wearing boxers- because Pete definitely was the kind of asshole that only wore boxers to sleep.

He wondered what the best course of action would be, as he tiptoed into the room, being careful not to make a sound. Should he shake him awake? Or should he make a loud noise? Would Pete get pissed off? Patrick really didn’t want to risk getting punched square in the face for waking _this_ fucking _sleeping-dragon_.

He eventually resolved to poke Pete awake, jabbing a long, pale finger between his shoulder blades. Pete only groaned quietly and rolled them, and Patrick was transfixed for a moment by the way they rolled and shifted under his skin. Shaking his head lightly, Patrick poked at his shoulder, but it had a similar response, as Pete’s shoulder only twitched and he exhaled softly.

 

Patrick furrowed his brow and scowled, wrinkling his nose. This asshole smelled like he’d practially been _dipped_ in vodka- that certainly didn’t bode well for his breathalyser test.

 

The redhead was losing his patience, and opted to shake Pete awake instead, placing a pale hand on his shoulder and gripping, shaking the man softly at first, before growing more insistent.

 

“Wha-? Ugh-” Pete stirred awake, rolling over to squint up at Patrick tiredly. “What the fuck man?” His voice was strained and croaky, and Patrick had a sneaking suspicion Pete had been engaging in... _interesting_ , activities the night before.

“I’m here to check up on you.” Patrick stepped back from the bed, letting Pete stumble to his feet. His hair was mussed, his eyes were tired, and he had dark eyebags which made him look reminiscent of a panda. Pete’s expression turned to one of irritation and he exhaled heavily, motioning for Patrick to follow him.

They trudged down the suspended stairs, before Pete slid into the kitchen- open-plan, again.

 

The girl from earlier was drinking something that Patrick assumed was green tea- by the smell, and Pete stumbled onto a bar stool, craning his neck to squint up at the light fixture. Patrick started pulling equipment out of his bag, while the girl moved over to Pete, slammed her cup on the counter with a slight spill, and draped her arms around Pete's shoulders, humming contentedly into his neck.

Patrick wrinkled his nose at the smell of alcohol that clung to the soccer player, and he moved over to Pete, holding a breathalyser- while the girl watched him annoyed eyes for interrupting the moment. “Blow into this.”

 

Pete groaned, but obliged, and when Patrick pulled back, his eyes widened at the screen.

 

 

0.08.

 

 

“I hope you’re not planning on driving today.” Patrick reprimanded with a stern mutter, shoving the machine back into his bag and pulling out the syringe case instead. “Uh- we kind of _were_ , actually.” The girl scowled, tilting her head and standing up straight, leaning a hand on the counter. Patrick glanced at her, “Well, _you_ better do the driving then.”

“I _don’t_ drive.”

“Well, you can’t go out then.” Patrick shoved on a pair of gloves, and pulled the safety plastic from the syringe bevel. There was a loud scoff.

 

“Uh- excuse me, but who do you think _you are_ to order-”

 

“Girls, calm down.”

Pete groaned, rubbing a temple with his hand. “Meagan, we’ll have to cancel, I feel like shit anyway.” Meagan exhaled sharply and glared at Patrick, who just exhaled quietly as Pete held out his arm for the tourniquet.

As the needle breached skin and vein, Patrick glanced up at Meagan, who was making a move to leave, “By the way-” Patrick called, raising his eyebrows at the girl, and she turned, looking confused and slightly _disgusted_ that Patrick was speaking to her. Patrick had seen that look on many people's faces over the years.

 

“I’m his _doctor_ \- He’s contractually-obligated to let me order him around, you get it?”

 

Meagan’s lip curled but she bit her tongue and left, angry footsteps thundering up the stairs a few moments later. Patrick bit the inside of his cheek, _shit_ he’d been rude to Pete Wentz’s _girlfriend_ \- if Pete complained to Dahlman, that could get Patrick fired. He honestly expected Pete to growl at him and tell him to- ‘ _Get the fuck out of my house_ ’, so he had to admit- he was thoroughly surprised when he only heard extremely amused laughter from the soccer player.

 

Patrick pulled the bevel out, brow furrowed at Pete as he watched the man laugh with crinkled eye corners, while rubbing his face against his palm tiredly. “Good job, she’s not used to being spoken to like that.”

Patrick gulped, “Sorry, I didn’t-”

“No, it was fucking _hilarious_ dude, don’t sweat it.”

 

Patrick smiled nervously, pulling out the two stethoscopes, and at the sight of them- Pete spun around on the breakfast stool to present his toned back to the redhead. Patrick pressed the bell stethoscope to his skin first, and when he'd finished counting, he asked a pressing question that had been on his mind since he’d smelled the stench of shots clinging to Pete.

 

“What did you _do_ last night- _exactly?_ ”

 

“Wouldn’t _you_ like to know?”

 

He turned his head to wiggle his eyebrows at Patrick suggestively- and it coaxed a blush, _and_ a scowl, from the shorter man.

 

“That is _not_ what I meant, and you know it.”

 

Pete laughed again, nodding his head and turning his gaze back at the floor in front of him with a dramatic sigh. “I went to a party, friend of mine turned 27.” Patrick nodded, wrinkling his nose.

 

“And do you _remember_ any of it?”

Pete’s laughter rang out again, and Patrick was starting to grow fond of the sound, lips twitching upwards into a miniscule smile. “Uh...last thing I remember was a Jägerbomb. S’all black after that.”

Patrick mostly stifled a sigh at Pete's casual gesturing and aloof answer, but he exhaled through his nose deeply. “Try to sober up before the game, okay?” Pete squinted, and turned again, watching as Patrick noted down his results, and fished out another stethoscope from his bag. “Game…? _What_ game?”

Patrick raised his eyebrows in disbelief, and scoffed lightly, smiling while shaking his head.

 

“You guys have a game on Wednesday- against the Red Bulls.”

 

“The New York…-?”

 

Patrick nodded, “It’s ' _at home_ ' for LA.”

Pete nodded back, slowly and thoughtfully, before suddenly swivelling his chair back to face Patrick- cutting off the doctor’s stethoscope placement.

 

“Are you gonna be there?”

 

Patrick just shrugged. “I’m one of the doctors, _of course_ I am.” Pete half-grinned, eyes squinting, and their corners crinkling. “You ever... _watch_ , matches?” Patrick shook his head, spinning Pete’s chair back around and pressing the cold metal of the stethoscope down.

 

As Patrick jotted down the results, Pete shuffled next to him, head leaning on his hand and inquisitive, shining eyes. “So, _why are you a sports doctor_ if you don’t like _sports?_ ”

Patrick exhaled, starting to pack his practical equipment away, and then quickly fishing out another form for the mental and emotional tests.

 

“It paid well, I was good at it.”

“Ah-” Pete grinned, tilting his head and crossing his arms on the counter. “Greedy for money then?”

Patrick couldn’t help the glare that escaped him, and he answered curtly and sharply. “No, I wanted to be able to put my son through college.”

Pete suddenly leaned back, eyes bright and attentive. “You have a son?”

 

That was a little weird.

 

Patrick furrowed his brow in confusion, but nodded. Pete only grinned. “How old?”

“Five.”

“ _Ah_ ,” Pete’s grin broadened and he turned to gaze out at the view over his pool, staring out beyond the cliff. “My youngest son is five too.”

 

Patrick froze.

 

Pete had a son?

 

And he said ‘youngest son’, so did that mean he had more than one?

 

Patrick feared for those kids if _Pete_ , of all people, was their father.

 

 

“What’s his name?”

 

Patrick was shaken out of his condolences to Pete’s spawn by the question. “Uh- Declan. His name’s Declan.” Pete nodded, grin broadening. Patrick cleared his throat, and his gaze flitted around the house. It didn’t look like any kids lived here, it was far too clean- and not to mention, quiet. There were no toys lying around, no mystery stains on carpet, and there were no kids' drawings on the fridge.

 

“Do your kids live with _you_?”

 

The question sounded a little more... _concerned_ , than intended, but Pete didn’t seem offended, instead answering with a light shrug. “Saint lives here- Meagan’s his mom so...”

 

Patrick suddenly felt very sorry for 'Saint'. Meagan didn't come across as very... _maternal_.

 

“-But Bronx lives with my ex-wife, I uh- don’t get to see him much, y’know between travelling for _games_ , and _training_.”

Patrick nodded, trying to look sympathetic even though he definitely wasn’t in the same boat.

 

Well, actually- No. They _were_ in similar...predicaments- Not spending enough time with their kids because they were overworked- Patrick could just about make that connection, and he actually managed to empathise. He was pretty sure _that_ had been a bonafide miracle.

 

 

 

 

“So uh, just a few...questions and stuff.”

Pete nodded tiredly, “Shoot.”

 

“Have you drank this week- _Oh, yeah_.” Patrick drew a tick, and Pete huffed in amusement.

 

“Have you smoked, anything? Cigarettes, or, weed? Or-”

 

“Weed, last night.”

  
Patrick froze and his eyes widened for a second, before he nodded and drew another tick, jotting down the drug of choice.

 

Great, so far, his son’s idol was a crazy, alcoholic drug addict that lived on a cliff.

 

Absolutely fantastic.

 

“Have you been eating well? Sleeping okay?”

 

Pete huffed a laugh, but there was a certain glint of sadness behind his eyes. “Uh- yeah, I’ve been eating fine.”

 

“...And sleeping?” Patrick noticed the way he’d avoided the last question.

 

Pete scowled a little and shrugged lightly, tilting his head awkwardly and glancing out at the view again. “...I have insomnia, so...” Patrick gaped a little, but quickly nodded in understanding, and noted it down, swiftly moving onto the next question.

 

 

As he came to the end of the form, Patrick had determined that while Pete was _very_ irresponsible- he’d live.

...However, there was _still_ another lingering question on his mind as he signed the forms and packed them away. He glanced at Pete, who was tapping out an uneven beat on the counter in pure boredom.

 

Fuck it.

 

Might as well ask.

 

 

 

“...Why did you... _ask_ _for_ _me?_ ”

 

 

 

Pete just looked confused.

 

“...You know, _specifically?_ Dr. Dahlman told me...”

 

Patrick trailed off at Pete’s understanding grin, watching as the man stood, stretched and flexed a little- successfully _brutally murdering_ Patrick, before dropping his limbs and shrugging. “You’ve got a... _a kick_ to you, I like that- No, I _respect_ that.”

The redhead felt himself flush a little, and Pete smirked, biting his lip and squinting his eyes with a tilt of his head. He suddenly stepped forwards with a silent footfall, “Besides...” He moved his lips to hover over Patrick’s ear, breathing hotly against the red-flushed skin.

 

 

 

 

“I like a challenge."

 

 

 

 


	4. Why Can't We Be Friends?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for all the comments! They legit made me feel a lot better. I hope you guys enjoy this chapter!

 

“Dad, what’s your job?”

 

Declan stared up at Patrick with wide eyes, twisting his fork around in a bowl of spaghetti. Patrick’s eyes widened and he froze for a moment, before smiling nervously and giving a strained laugh. “Why’d you ask, Dec?”

The boy shrugged lightly, pressing the fork into his mouth and speaking with his mouth full- which Patrick quickly reprimanded.

 

“Our homework is to interview our mom or dad about their job. And mom doesn’t have one, so-”

 

He grinned up at his dad, mouth stained with sauce. Patrick exhaled, wiping a napkin over his son's mouth, and earning a discontented groan from the boy, before answering.

 

“Uh, I’m a doctor, buddy-”

 

Declan quickly held his hands out, “Wait, wait!-” He tilted his head and shoved another fork of spaghetti into his mouth. “-I have a paper with questions on it- I have t’use _that_.”

 

 

 

 

After dinner, Declan had darted away to his room, before returning with his worksheet- and Patrick’s reading glasses. He made Patrick sit in a chair opposite to him, pushing the glasses onto his nose- which Patrick quickly removed, earning a whine from Declan. “That’ll hurt your eyes.”

Declan rolled his eyes, but clicked his pen and stared up at his father with a furrowed, inquisitive brow.

Patrick couldn’t help but smile- Declan was really taking this seriously.

 

“Okay,” He wiggled, settling into the armchair. “What’s your job?”

 

“I’m a doctor.”

 

Patrick laughed quietly as he watched his son nod once, and furiously scribble down the answer with his small tongue poking out of his mouth.

 

“What do you do at your job?”

 

“I check people are healthy, and if they’re not, I help them get better.”

 

Declan grinned with wide eyes, praising his father’s career choice with a mumble. “ _That’s cool_.” He jotted down the answer, before squinting at the page, and looking up.

 

 

“Where do you work?”

 

 

Oh fuck.

 

 

Patrick really considered making something up- telling Declan he worked at a hospital or something, but Patrick was a really bad liar- while Declan was a really _good_ one, and could always tell when someone was being untruthful. Patrick bit the inside of his cheek, smiling tightly at his son, before exhaling, and admitting the truth.

 

 

“I work at the StubHub Center.”

 

 

Declan’s eyes widened and his jaw dropped.

 

 

Shit.

 

 

“T-that’s the LA Galaxy stadium!”

 

 

“Yeah it is, buddy-”

 

“Do you help the players?”

 

 

Goddamnit, Declan was too smart for his own good.

 

 

“...Uh, yeah, buddy, I do-”

  
  
  
“HAVE YOU MET WENTZ?!”

 

 

Oh yeah, Patrick had met ‘ _Wentz_ ’ alright.

 

 

He was a rude, inconsiderate, pervert, asshole who also happened to be an alcoholic and probably had numerous drug addictions.

 

 

“...Yeah, I have.”

 

 

Declan looked like he was dying.

 

His homework had been completely disregarded, tossed to the floor, and he was stood in front of Patrick, holding his arm tightly for support to not drop to his knees in shock, face twisted into admiration, awe, shock, and desperation.

 

Patrick had a suspicion about what was coming next.

 

 

“Please dad- _please_ -”

 

 

And there it was.

 

 

“Oh _no-no-no_ -”

 

“DAD PLEASE-”

 

“No, Declan.” Patrick stood, picking up his son and marching over to the bathroom, ignoring the pleas in his ear.

 

“Brush your teeth.”

 

Declan was on his knees now, arms wrapped around Patrick’s knees and voice growing frantic. “PLEASE, _please_ , please, please, dad, _please_ -”

 

  
  
“DECLAN.”

 

 

Patrick never raised his voice at his son- Declan was a pretty good kid, and he never really had to, but sometimes, _just sometimes_...And he always felt awful about it afterwards, he hated watching the boy shirk back and sniff, and his eyes would always tear up- even if he was trying to be angry.

 

The boy stood, releasing his father’s legs, while sniffing and wiping his eyes with his sleeve, moving away to the sink to brush his teeth with tiny sobs and with a bad attitude.

As Patrick tucked Declan into bed, the boy was still pleading quietly- although it wasn’t really directed at Patrick anymore, it was more towards god, or the universe, or whoever controlled the possibilities of Declan meeting his idol.

 

“Please, please, please...please-” The whimpering begs were muffled against his pillow, and Declan was curled up, tightly holding his favourite stuffed toy- Frog, who was actually a black and white _rabbit_ , but that one-year old Declan had insisted that his animal-identifying skills were correct.

Patrick felt bad.

His son’s whimpers and pleads were making him feel awful, and raising his voice hadn’t been much fun either. Patrick chewed on his lip, before kissing Declan on the forehead and leaving, with a mumbled ‘goodnight’, and trying to drown out Declan’s sniffling with his thoughts.

 

 

 

 

 

2:34am.

 

Shit, Patrick had done it again.

He leaned back into the couch, and sighed at the mountains of medical forms all over his thighs and splayed all over the coffee table. Patrick shut his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose, humming tiredly and slowly falling asleep, when suddenly- a buzz jolted him fully awake, and Patrick realized it was his phone, buzzing on the armrest and flashing a notification on the screen, letting him know he had a new text.

Patrick swiped the phone, unlocking it and then, squinted down at the message.

 

_Christian Dahlman: Patrick, sorry to disturb you at this hour, but do you have Wentz’s BAC handy?_

 

Patrick sighed, typing out a response. Looks like he wasn’t the only workaholic doctor hired by the club. Patrick idly wondered if that was one of the qualities they looked for, because despite it having pretty bad effects on their personal lives- they worked damn hard, _no one_ could deny that.

 

_Patrick Stumph: Yeah, it’s right here_

_Patrick Stumph: 0.08_

 

Another buzz, and Dahlman’s response came quickly.

 

_Christian Dahlman: Risky_

_Christian Dahlman: Thank you Patrick_

 

Patrick chewed on his lip, staring down at the screen, feeling the guilt at denying Declan writhing in his stomach.

He remembered being twelve, and really wanting to see some punk band that he’d idolized for a while, they were going to be playing a show- right in his city. His parents had refused, and Patrick had _begged_ them, _pleading_ \- but he’d only been met with firm refusal. That day, as he lay in bed sniffling, and missing the concert- he’d promised himself that if he ever had kids, he’d never stop them from seeing their idols- no matter who they were.

...But now- here he was, doing exactly that.

 

...Technically, Declan wouldn’t really... _meet_ , Pete, right?

 

Like, Pete would be playing- he wouldn’t be walking around having long conversations with fans, he’d be a little preoccupied with the game.

 

And also, just... _technically_ \- Patrick had seen compilations of pitch invaders that had made beelines for Wentz- everyone, from giggling two year olds, to women who practically pounced on him, to men who vehemently thanked and hugged him for reviving the dead, lifeless corpse that had been US soccer. And from those videos, it was obvious that Pete knew how to behave with fans- he never shoved them away, or insulted them. He’d sign shirts, escort them back, and chat to whoever ran out to him- all with a kind grin.

 

So at least, Declan’s expectations wouldn’t be beaten into a bloody pulp, right?

 

Patrick chewed on his lip again, exhaling and typing on the keyboard quickly with deft thumbs.

 

_Patrick Stumph: Can I bring family members to the match on Wed?_

 

Patrick was a little nervous at the long silence that followed, before a message cleared all his anxieties.

 

_Christian Dahlman: Of course, no more than five people though._

 

_Patrick Stumph: Oh no, it’s just my son, he’s a big fan._

_Patrick Stumph: Do I have to pay, or get tickets at all?_

 

_Christian Dahlman: No, just come to the match with the doctors, he can sit in the benches._

 

_Patrick Stumph: Great, thank you Dr._

 

_Christian Dahlman: No problem, Patrick. Have a good night, and rest- you’ll need it, matches can be brutal._

 

_Patrick Stumph: Yes sir, see you tomorrow._

 

 

Patrick smiled down at his phone, before yawning and packing away papers into their correct folders. He stacked them on the coffee table neatly, and moved away to bed, brushing his teeth, getting changed, and then dropping into the tough mattress with a content groan, wrapping the comforter around himself and shoving his face into the soft pillow.

 

Declan was going to be happy. Pete wasn’t going to be an asshole. Everything was gonna be fine.

 

 

 

 

 

Declan shoved a spoonful of sugary cereal into his mouth, eyes dim and still looking downtrodden from the night before. Since that little fiasco had stopped him from finishing his homework, Patrick had done it for him, copying the messy writing, and answering the questions as best he could.

 

It was Wednesday morning, and match started at 6pm- sharp. Plenty of time for Declan to go to school, have a shower, eat, and then go to the match. Patrick glanced over at his son from his own bowl of plain cornflakes, smiling slightly, and deciding it was time to put the boy out of his misery.

 

“Hey Dec?”

 

The boy sniffed, staring up at his dad with wide, pleading eyes.

 

“...There’s a...match, today. Against the New York Red Bulls.”

 

Declan’s brow furrowed in confusion, and he tilted his head. Patrick grinned, he could practically see the little gears of his mind turning, trying to figure out where this was leading.

 

 

“Would you like to go?”

 

Declan gasped, and his chest rose as he puffed up with overwhelmed excitement. He only nodded furiously for a moment, words escaping him before finally stuttering out a solid answer. “YES, YES, _PLEASE_ DAD-”

 

“Great, it’s at 6.”

A delighted squeal rang through the kitchen as Declan bounced up and down in his chair, shifting with a gigantic grin on his face. He suddenly hopped down from the chair, darting over to his dad and engulfing him in a tight hug, face buried into his shoulder with small sobs of thanks. “Thank you, _thank you so much, dad!_ ”

 

Patrick grinned. No point in being a sports doctor if he didn’t score a few free matches for his son, right? He ruffled Declan’s hair, “You’re welcome, buddy.”

 

 

 

 

 

When the elementary school doors opened, a stampede of children rushed out- screaming and giggling loudly. Declan sprinted over to Patrick with footsteps thundering against the ground, he crashed into his dad, engulfing him a hug. “Ready to go?” Declan squeaked with squinted eyes and nodded, letting his dad lead him to the car by the hand.

The whole drive was filled with ‘fun facts’ about LA Galaxy and Pete Wentz courtesy of Declan, and Patrick simply nodded at each one, making small hums that were trying to sound interested.

They eventually pulled up at the stadium parking lot, that was already filled with cars and excited crowds, sporting different coloured shirts and face paint, that screamed which team they supported.

Thankfully, Patrick had the right to park in the staff parking lot, which lay a little further west, and was guarded by a barrier and a watchman with a guard dog- just in case.

 

The watchman nodded with a small smile as Patrick drove over the speed bump, heading into the quieter parking lot and circling once, before parking in an empty spot- next to a grey Lamborghini, that he was certain belonged to a player. Declan hopped out of the car, and gingerly stepped over to the supercar, with slow footsteps.

"Whoa..." Declan's blue eyes were as round as full moons, and Patrick eventually had to drag his son away from the spectacle- fearing they were going to be late.

 

Much to the boy’s dismay, however, once inside the stadium- they completely passed by the player’s rooms, and headed to the doctor supply rooms instead, but Declan trusted in his dad, and followed quietly. Patrick stepped inside with Declan darting in ahead of him, and three other doctors were chatting quietly, before offering kind greetings to Patrick.

Dr. Dahlman, Dr. Borisova, and... _a new guy_ he hadn’t seen before.

 

As Dahlman introduced them, prompting Patrick and the new guy to shake hands, he’d learned that the man’s name was Dr. Robert Clements, who had, coincidentally- just transferred from New York. He and Patrick had both been hired to replace two senior doctors that had recently retired, and Patrick was grateful that there were plenty of doctors at LA Galaxy- he really didn’t want to become overworked again like he was in Vegas.

“And this is your son?” Dahlman smiled, motioning at the small boy, shuffling his shoes and glancing around at the room skittishly. Patrick smiled, putting a hand on Declan’s head. “Yeah, this is Declan.” He ruffled the hair, smiling. “Say hi, Dec.”

The boy suddenly snapped his gaze upwards, and grinned cheerily. “Oh, hi!”

“You’re a fan?” Borisova smiled kindly, and Declan nodded furiously, coaxing small laughs from all four adults.

 

 

Patrick and the three doctors on duty today sat in the stadium benches- which literally had leather seats, emblazoned with the club crest and the logo of their sponsors- much to Patrick’s amazement.

Declan sat beside him, facing away, head craning and fingernails worrying the armrests.

 

“Calm down, buddy, it’ll start soon.”

 

Patrick smiled assuringly as his son glanced up at him with a sheepish smile, before returning to his previous disposition of attentive bouncing.

They had been waiting a while actually, and Patrick had started periodically glancing down at his watch. 6:23pm. Why were they late, and why hadn’t the match started? Christ, were they this late all the time? God, Patrick was going to lose his-

 

 

And then, suddenly, they emerged, walking through the stadium tunnel.

The LA Galaxy players were clad in white- white shorts, white socks, and white jerseys lined at the seams with gold and blue, their club logo was headlined with four, small white stars, and one larger gold one- indicating their American league cup wins.

Whereas the New York Red Bulls were sporting yellow shorts, navy socks and dark, navy blue away-jerseys- lined with thin yellow stripes at their sides, and their sponsor’s logo was red, large and in the center of their chests. However both teams had the Adidas logo stitched into their left chests, and each different player wore different soccer boots- of different colors and brands.

 

The teams marched out onto the field in lines, holding hands with kids who Patrick recognized as the mascots. Opposing fans were usually less inclined to throw things at players if they were right next to children- and on top of that, it sort of made the whole sport look... _wholesome_ , in a way- _family-friendly_.

Declan’s eyes were wide, jaw slack and breathing quietly, eyes locked on Pete Wentz. Patrick smiled at his excitement, and laughed quietly at the grin on his son’s features, despite the niggling worry in the back of his mind.

 

The lines of players stood beside each other, before beginning to move past each other instead, every player shaking hands. Suddenly, Patrick heard little pitter-patters of footfalls, and he turned to see a small gaggle of children running towards the benches, quickly hopping into the leather seats.

Patrick stared with a confused, furrowed brow.

 

_How the fuck_ had those kids broken in? Security was really tight, and a group of kids- not to mention a group of kids _THAT_ loud, could _not_ have snuck in.

 

He glanced around at the audience, seeing if he could spot any furious parents, calling their pitch invading children- but no, _nothing_.

 

Patrick looked around at the pitch, the two captains- Pete, and the same bright red-haired guy from Declan’s Red Bulls poster, were flipping a coin with the referee, to determine who would kick off.

  
However, Patrick was a little distracted right now- mainly because of the fucking group of kids that had broken in?

 

He glanced at Dahlman, Borisova and Clements- who all looked completely unfazed by the loud rascals.

 

And why was everyone totally chill about this?- Oh shit. Was Patrick going insane? Were these hallucinations- wait, even worse, were these _ghosts?_

If someone had fucking told him this stadium was haunted, he would not have taken the job- Patrick was pretty sure that was something like, _entrapment_ \- could he sue? 'Cause he was pretty emotionally damaged right now-

 

“Hello!”

 

Patrick heard a voice from behind him, and he turned in his seat to see- Joe’s daughter- Ruby, sat in the seat behind him. Well, he had honestly been expecting a victorian ghost child reminiscent of Oliver Twist, but this was fine too.

Oh shit- Patrick was dumb. These were the _player’s_ kids. “You’re the needle doctor!” She grinned up at him, and Patrick smiled nervously, but his eyes shined in relief that he wasn't, in fact, going insane. “Uh, yeah, I suppose so.” She giggled happily and sat up on her knees, straining to spot her father on the pitch, and laughing joyfully and waving back frantically, when he waved at her from the pitch.

 

 

 

“Hi!”

 

 

Patrick’s head turned again at Declan's chirping voice to his right, and he saw a little dark-haired boy, sat on the chair next to his son. The boy looked a little nervous, while Declan was avidly trying to make conversation. “Oh, h-hey!” Declan grinned at the kid's answer, and the dark-haired boy smiled shyly. Patrick tore his gaze away, and decided to focus on the match...but may or may not have strained his ears to eavesdrop on the conversation. Declan’s voice chimed in first.

 

“D’you support LA or the Red Bulls?”

 

“LA, what about you?”

 

“LA too! Who’s your favourite?”

 

The dark-haired boy tilted his head and hummed quietly in thought. “Hmm, I-I like a lot of ‘em really- but my favourites play for the Mobsters and Columbus- Urie, a-and, Joseph, y'know?”

 

Declan grinned and nodded, “I know _Brendon!_ I’ve met him lotsa times, ‘cause my dad worked there, and we used to live in Las Vegas- but _my_ favourite is Wentz!” The dark-haired boy gasped at the fact that Declan had met Brendon, awe shining through his brown eyes. Patrick suddenly saw his son furrow his brow with a smile, before holding out a friendly hand to the other boy.

“I’m Declan.”

The dark-haired boy grinned and took it, but Patrick couldn’t hear his name, as his answer was muffled by sudden, thunderous cheering from the crowd.

 

Patrick flicked his gaze up, eyes widening as he watched the scene. Pete had broken away from the mid-fielders, and was challenging the defenders with quick, taunting fake-outs, boots gliding the ball from side to side over the short grass. The defender in front of him was getting fed up, and sloppily lunged, allowing Pete to slip the ball between his open legs as though they were a tunnel- and then dart past him, re-taking the ball.

Another defender tried to tackle the ball away, sliding his legs down under Pete’s feet- but the striker had lightning fast reflexes, and flicked the ball up, bouncing it over the barrier and jumping over, chasing after.

The expectant cheers became deafening as Pete shook off the last two defenders with twists as he flicked the ball over their heads, while sprinting past them. He ran up to the goalie, who was glaring at the striker sternly, but his composure was betrayed by his trembling legs, and Pete faked him out by lunging right, before gracefully kicking the ball, and shooting it firmly into the top left corner. It sailed past the diving goalie, and Pete ran back up the pitch to the sound of chants of his name and raucous cheering. The teammates celebrated, mouthing words into the corner cameras and kissing the crests on their shirts, as the overjoyed, screaming audience made Patrick’s ears ring.

The white-clad soccer players jumped up on each other’s shoulders, cheering and laughing wildly, while Pete took his chances to shoot mocking smirks at the Red Bull’s defenders.

 

Patrick scowled- asshole ‘til the end.

 

 

 

The match had ended 3 – 1. Pete had scored a hat trick, and a blonde player who’s jersey read _'Way'_ , just managed to score once- and LA Galaxy ended up taking the win. The had players jogged away from the pitch, disappearing down the tunnel again, and Patrick was heading back to the medical rooms to check out of work with Declan behind him. Declan was still being followed by- and eagerly chatting to, the dark-haired boy.

 

“-Really? That’s so cool!”

 

“Y’think so?”

 

“Yeah, it’s awesome!”

 

There had only been one health scare during the match for the doctors, and that was when one of the defenders- Steres, had tried a slide tackle, but had ended up getting his leg trodden. Patrick and Borisova had checked him over- he had deep indents in the shape of cleats, and he’d probably have a nasty bruise, but he had been fine to carry on.

Patrick wrote down a quick report, recording the match teams, the date, any injuries and the results, while the two little boys chatted happily behind him. Patrick was glad Declan was making friends, he’d been worried when the boy hadn’t mentioned any from school.

 

“D’you like playing soccer?”

 

“Yeah! But I’m not that good, my dad’s trying to teach me though- but, I prefer watching _him_ play.”

 

Patrick furrowed his brow down at the paper at the boy’s words. He’d assumed he was one of the players kids, but he hadn’t considered _which one's_.

 

Now that he dwelled on it, the boy had a... _distinctive smile_...And familiar _whiskey-brown_ eyes...And strands of black hair that Patrick recognized from somewhere- but he couldn’t quite place.

 

“Your dad? Who’s your dad?”

 

Great question Declan, your dad is very proud of you.

 

“Oh, he’s-”

 

 

 

 

“Saint!”

 

 

Oh fuck.

 

 

Seriously? Of _all_ the kids that Declan could have made friends with-

 

The boys turned at the voice, and both had very different reactions. The dark-haired boy grinned and ran towards the source at once, while Declan looked like he was going to have a mental breakdown- or pass out. Either one- and it was in the best way possible, _of course_.

 

It was Pete Wentz. And the dark-haired boy was his son- Saint _Wentz_.

 

Patrick subtly wrenched his slack-jawed son behind him protectively, as he watched Saint tugging on his own dad’s arm, speaking to him animatedly, gesturing at their general direction, and bouncing up and down on his heels. Pete looked up in the direction of his son’s insistent gestures and saw Patrick. He grinned. Sly, mischievous, and amused.

He waltzed over to them, Saint leading him by the grip on his hand.

  
  
“Dad, this is my friend Declan!” Saint beamed up at Pete, and the man just smiled, holding back laughter at Patrick’s dark look.

 

Pete just managed to stifle his laughter successfully, and leaned down a fraction, managing to grin down at Declan, speaking without bursting into laughter at Patrick’s- now downright, _murderous_ , glare.

 

 

“Hey, buddy, how are you?”

 

 

Declan’s eyes were the size of plates, and he clung to his own dad’s leg helplessly, mouth hanging open and Patrick could feel his hands trembling, as they were fisted into the fabric. He really looked like he was struggling not to fall to his knees and start sobbing. The boy looked as though he was simultaneously on the brink of sudden death, and already in heaven. He spoke with a timid, awe-filled and shocked voice, eyes wider than Patrick had ever seen them before.

 

 

“F-f-f-fine, th-thank you s-sir.”

 

 

Pete smiled warmly, standing up straight and nodding at Patrick with a smirk. “Doctor.”

Patrick tried to ease up on his glare, he didn’t want to freak his son- or Saint, out, for that matter. So through a clenched jaw, and through gritted teeth, Patrick could only manage one word.

 

 

“Wentz.”

 

 

There was a tension between them- although Patrick wasn’t sure, which _type_ of tension it was, exactly.

Suddenly a chirping, happy, and pleading voice cut through the tense silence.

 

“Dad, can me and Declan play soccer at the park today?”

 

Saint stared up at his father with all-too-familiar puppy-dog eyes, while crushing Pete with a tight hug, cheek smushed into the man’s side. Pete laughed at ruffled his son’s hair before looking up at Patrick with raised eyebrows and an aloof expression.

 

“That’s up to the doctor.”

 

Oh awesome- thanks for the pressure, Pete. Thanks Pete. Thanks very much.

 

Patrick cleared his throat, and considered making up an excuse as to why Declan and _the spawn of Pete Wentz_ couldn’t go to the park together, but-

 

A small noise of pleading from below, and Patrick looked down to see wide, begging blue eyes staring up at him.

 

...Shit- this was literally the only friend Declan had made so far, and he couldn’t just... _stop them_ being friends because Pete was _an asshole_. The sins of the father are not the sins of the son, after all. Patrick glanced down at Declan, before moving his gaze to the expectant and pleading Saint, and smiling warmly.

 

 

“Sure, no problem.”

 

Saint squeaked happily and beamed, and Declan let go of Patrick’s leg to grin back, bouncing excitedly in place, eyes locking back on his idol- full of admiration.

Pete’s eyes brows were raised in casual surprise, and Patrick smiled at him sarcastically-sweetly, watching Declan and Saint chatting eagerly about the park.

 

 

 

 

 

Patrick glanced at his side, Pete was sat at the other end of the park bench, texting lazily and yawning periodically.

 

Out of all the kids in LA, Declan had chosen Saint to be his friend.

 

Fate was really fucking Patrick over.

 

The redhead looked up, squinting and smiling lightly as he watched the two boys playing. Declan dribbled the ball, and Saint hopped around, trying to stop him from scoring.

With a loud clang, the ball hit the metal post, and it ricocheted into the net, but instead of being upset- Saint celebrated with Declan, praising him and announcing how ‘that was so cool!’- with loud, vehement cheers.

While it seemed Saint may not have inherited his father’s soccer skills, he actually seemed like a really good kid.

 

Shame about his dad- but still a good kid.

 

 

 

“Your kid’s a fan?”

 

Pete’s voice suddenly rang out from his side, and Patrick’s head flicked over to him. The redhead furrowed his brow, but the older man huffed and just blinked with exasperation. “You brought him to _a game?_ ”

Patrick’s eyes widened a fraction and he nodded. “Yeah, he’s... _soccer-crazy_ \- Don’t know where he gets it from.” Pete laughed softly, and Patrick hated the way his lips twitched upwards at the noise.

 

“So who’s his favourite?”

 

“I think you know the answer to that already.”

 

“C’mon, just say it- admit it for me.”

 

Patrick glared, before exhaling dramatically. “You are.” Pete’s impish grin looked pressing and insistent, making Patrick stifle a sigh, and move his gaze back to their happy sons; Declan was now trying to teach Saint how to get the ball into the net.

 

“...Fine, alright- Posters, jerseys- _the whole deal_ , okay?”

 

Pete nodded, leaning back with a smirk and looking satisfied as he gazed out at the kids too.

 

 

“They’re getting along really well.”

 

 

Patrick couldn’t help but smile softly. “Yeah, they are.”

 

Pete’s voice rang out again, and the content smile painting Patrick's pale face dropped instantly- blank horror taking its place.

 

 

“If they become friends...I guess we’ll be seeing a lot more of each other.”

 

 

Patrick’s lip curled and he glared at Pete through squinted eyes, smiling sarcastically and shaking his head subtly. “I don’t think that’ll be necessary.”

 

Pete grinned, he was really enjoying Patrick’s despair- _the sick bastard_.

 

“Oh yeah it will-” He started counting off on his fingers, “Play dates, birthday parties, sleepovers- you name it.”

 

Patrick scoffed, mind whirring to come up with a response, but he ultimately took too long, and the soccer player just gave an amused, quiet laugh, and changed the subject.

 

“So, what did you think of the game?”

 

Patrick sighed, leaning back, and picking at the black chipped paint on the iron armrest. “I wasn’t really paying attention- I was just looking out for anyone who got injured- Y’know, _since that’s my job_.”

Patrick smirked slightly, feeling satisfaction at relaying Pete's own rude words back to himself.

 

It wasn’t a total lie.

 

...But it wasn’t a total truth, either.

 

Pete could totally tell.

 

“ _Oh_ _really?_ ” His voice was dripping with sarcasm, and it made Patrick scowl. He leaned forwards and over, lowering his voice. “So you didn’t see that goal?”

 

Patrick knew that the best course of action when you were caught lying was just to deny.

 

Maybe not the most moral- but really the best.

 

“No, I didn’t”

 

Pete’s grin only got broader, and his eyes crinkled at the corners in a really adorable way- No. _NO_. It was _not_ adorable. It was _annoying_. Patrick had to pull himself together, Jesus.

 

“Are you _sure_...? 'Cause I’m pretty sure I saw you _staring_...” Pete looked way too smug for Patrick’s liking, “Wide eyes, mouth open-”

 

“ _I wasn’t, okay?!_ ” Patrick hissed.

 

“Look. You don’t like me, and I don’t like you-”

 

Pete looked as though he was going to protest, indignation all over his face, but Patrick quickly cut him off before he even tried to start _that_ exchange.

 

“Jus-Just, shut up-”

 

Patrick exhaled heavily, eyes fluttering closed, and fingers rubbing over his temple in small circles.

 

“-But, _as I was saying_ \- Let’s just try to be... _polite_ to each other...for our kids.” Patrick motioned his head and gestured casually with a hand.

 

Both men gazed forwards for a second; Declan was teaching Saint to do kick ups. Patrick’s son would bounce, cheer and praise Saint every time he managed more than one consecutively- always making Saint laugh and beam.

Saint clumsily kicked the ball over to Declan- who in turn, caught it swiftly and the men just about heard Saint’s faint request from the bench. “Can you try ‘em?” Declan’s response came with a cheery voice. “Sure!”

With a brow furrowed in concentration, Declan bounced the ball on his foot, once, twice, three- and kept going, with vehement awe from Saint.

 

"He's good." Pete nodded at Patrick with a small smile and raised eyebrows, Patrick only nodded back and swallowed his anger.

 

While watching the sight of the boys playing soccer, Pete and Patrick both started smiling softly, before quickly glancing back at each other- with their faces instantly contorting back into serious glares.

 

Tense silence settled between them again, but was promptly shattered by an _outstanding_ observation from Pete.

 

 

“Declan looks a lot like you.”

 

 

_Well he is my son you dipshit._

 

 

Instead, Patrick bit his tongue, and tried to respond amicably- _he had_ just suggested they be polite to each other, and Patrick wanted to be the bigger man here.

 

“...Saint looks... _a lot_ like you too...”

 

Pete nodded, and so did Patrick, curtly ending the stilted exchange.

 

The redhead turned to watch the boys again, and he felt a cold shiver run down his back when he realized something very... _unsettling_ \- something he couldn't unsee after Pete's comment. _  
_

Well, in front of him, well shit- it was basically him and Pete playing soccer at five years old. He glanced over at Pete- and the older man must have been thinking the same, because there was a slight, thoughtful grimace on his face.

 

 

Patrick squinted as he noticed the two boys whispering to each other, giggling and laughing wildly, before light, quick footfalls darted towards the bench, along with quiet gasps of laughter.

Both men strained smiles at their own sons, and soon enough, both boys were pulling wide puppy-dog eyes- that _neither_ father liked the look of.

 

“Dad...?” Saint began with a beam and dragged out voice, and Declan grinned at Patrick behind him. “Yeah, buddy?”

 

 

“Can we go get ice cream?”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Pete and Patrick glared at each other periodically from across a new bench, as their sons were bouncing around hyperactively, cheerfully chatting and licking at ice cream cones a safe distance away- It turns out Pete was _also_ a pushover.

 

Good to know, and it made Patrick feel a little better about his own inability to say ‘ _no_ ’ to Declan.

 

After a small period of merciful silence, Patrick had been mulling over their conversation in the park. He never felt great about lying, and in some weird way, he really wanted to tell Pete that he _had_ seen the goal, and that it had been _amazing_.

 

Fuck it.

 

Might as well.

 

 

“...Uh...I may not have been...100% truthful, _back there_...” Pete furrowed his brow with a small smile and tilted his head, squinting all the while.

 

“I uh- _saw_ your...your goal. The first one.”

 

Pete grinned knowingly, as though he’d known it all along, but had been playing along to Patrick’s lie.

 

“Of course you did, I’m hard to look away from.”

 

Patrick glared again, now feeling less inclined to compliment him on his skills- he’d always despised arrogance.

 

“...So, what did y’think?”

 

Patrick exhaled heavily, crossing his arms, and staring ahead to their sons.

“...It was good- it was fine.” He shrugged irritably, the redhead had really been irked by Pete’s cockiness, and was mad at himself for not being able to bring himself to be sarcastic.

 

 

“Just ‘fine’?”

 

 

Patrick glared at Pete’s impish grin again. “You know you’re better than fine- you know that. You don’t need someone else to tell you- and I bet your ego doesn't need any more boosting.”

Pete shrugged lightly, seemingly unoffended by the insulting comment, leaning back into the bench and shuffling against the hard wooden slats, while crossing his arms to mirror Patrick.

“Well, hearing it never gets tiring." He looked over at Patrick, mischief glinting in his eyes. "‘Specially not from someone like _you_.” He nodded and winked at Patrick, causing the redhead to break out into a blush.

Patrick cleared his throat, brow furrowing, and desperately wanting to ask what he meant by ' _someone like you_ '- And the fact that Pete had this...effect on him just made Patrick hate him even more.

 

 

 

 

 

Pete whistled at his son to get his attention, and Patrick’s nose wrinkled- Treating your kid like a dog is a _gigantic_ parenting fail.

The boys hugged quickly, before they both darted off to their respective fathers- who had coincidentally parked right next to each other.

 

Yes, _of course_ , the expensive Lamborghini belonged to Pete. He shouldn't have expected anything less.

 

Patrick felt a little insecure about his car- it wasn’t _rusty_ , or _old_ or anything but, _God_ , Pete’s car was a fucking brand-new _Lamborghini_ , the same one Declan had been totally mesmerized with- How the fuck was Patrick supposed to compare to _that_ on _his_ salary?

 

 

Normal people don’t earn 40 million dollars a year, _Pete_.

 

 

Normal people can’t buy supercars every week, and live in houses that dangle off cliffs, **_PETE._**

 

 

 

“Bye Declan!”

 

“Bye Saint!”

 

Both boys crawled into their father’s respective cars, buckling their seatbelts and idly waiting for their dads to say their own goodbyes, and finally drive them home to watch cartoons- or _whatever_ kids _did_ in their spare time.

 

Pete smirked at Patrick, “See you Friday, doc.”

Patrick tried to hold back a smile and glare simultaneously- and he really didn’t know Pete had these wildly clashing effects on him. He cleared his throat, answering with a strained voice.

 

 

“Goodbye, Pete. See you Friday.”

 

 


	5. And You'll Get Knocked-Out Like A Shot

 

“Hi, I’m Pete Wentz from the New York Red Bulls- nah, _I’m sorry_ -” Brendon said confidently, before stifling his laugh, pressing a fist to his mouth, and shaking his head.

 

Loud laughter came from behind the set cameras, as the players of the national team _lost their collective_ _shit_ , laughing and hiccuping wildly behind the scenes. There were a quiet, stifled giggles from cameramen, but the director and their manager weren’t best pleased.

 

“Once again. No joking around this time.” But the quiet giggling from the soccer players persisted, and the director turned with a deathly scowl and a hiss.

 

“ _Silence_.”

 

 

Patrick watched from the corner, carefully watching one of the players- Tyler Joseph, to make sure he didn’t hurt or strain his injured leg; The striker had been injured during a friendly domestic match against Dallas Texans SC- and a midfielder had kicked down on his knee, successfully popping it backwards, and dislocating it. The Columbus doctors had relocated the joint, and Joseph could still walk- but running was strictly off the table, by doctor’s orders, and was only allowed if he _really_ needed to...like- if he had to get away from a stalker/murderer/kidnapper- _he was allowed to run_.

 

Columbus had only let their injured star striker make the journey to LA for the US team, under the agreement that Joseph would be supervised by at least _one_ doctor at all times- so here Patrick was.

 

It hadn’t really bothered Patrick that much though- Joseph was quiet, amicable and chilled out, and it had also given Patrick an excuse to shake off Pete.

The older man had been annoying him all day, feigning ills and pretending he was on his deathbed to get the redhead’s attention. Patrick had no idea why- but it was _gradually pissing him off_ , Pete seemed to be an expert in getting on his nerves.

 

If Patrick didn’t know any better, he’d think that Pete was actually jealous- _Actually jealous_ that he didn’t have the doctor at his beck and call. And whenever Patrick was assessing Joseph- asking him questions about the pain levels, or replacing bandages- he always felt that familiar glare burning into his back.

 

 

All the US national team players had converged in LA two days before they were due to fly to the Netherlands for a the first, international pre-world cup match, but first, they were filming promotions for the said international string of matches. Patrick didn’t really think the promos were necessary- Soccer was immensely popular and the public didn’t need much encouragement to watch it- especially during international seasons; It seemed to bond just about everyone together in a sense of national unity, and it made patriotism rampant.

During international seasons- streets, houses, and cities all alike would be drowning in the stars and stripes, people would include US jerseys as part of their daily wear, some would paint their nails with the flag, and some- _very recklessly_ , in Patrick’s opinion, would ink their skin- either with flags, crests or player’s names. The whole country would be submerged in dazed mania, and the atmosphere everywhere was relaxed and united, but fiercely competitive at the same time.

 

 

“Mr. Urie? Once again, please.”

 

Brendon nodded while stifling a grin, chewing on his lip and trying to keep himself composed, and this time, spoke the correct name and club.

Patrick smiled gently, he’d really missed the guys from the Mobsters- and apparently they’d missed him too, the new doctor was a ‘total piece of shit’, allegedly.

 

 

 

 

“STUMPH, MY MAN!”

 

Brendon had yelled, earlier that morning, just as Patrick was introducing himself as Joseph’s doctor to the two Ohio players.

Urie had rushed over to him, engulfing his old friend in a bone-crushing hug, and the other chosen Mobsters players moved up to do the same. Patrick had escorted them- and the Columbus players, into the LA center, and while Patrick had been checking up on Joseph’s knee, Brendon, Dallon, Kenny, Spencer, Ryan and Jon, had all insisted on 'catching up'- but most of _that_ really entailed complaining about their new doctor back in Las Vegas.

 

Patrick may not have admitted it to them, but he had really missed these guys. Sure, they had been _idiots_ sometimes, but in comparison to Pete, they were bonafide angels.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“Are you kidding me right now?”

 

“I’m afraid not-”

 

“I-I have a son! I can’t just leave him!”

 

“You’ll have to leave him with family-”

 

“My parents live in Illinois, t-they can’t just-”

 

“Couldn’t you leave him with a spouse, or ex-”

 

“My ex-wife is in BALI, I can’t-”

 

“You could bring your son with you-”

 

“-I can’t take Declan out of school to go traipsing off on a world tour. Besides- We’re going to _Amsterdam_ first- _Amsterdam_ is not a good place for a kid-”

 

“Well, I’m afraid you’re sorely needed, so you’ll have to figure something out.”

 

Patrick scoffed in disbelief, gaping and shaking his head at the medical coordinator- a sharp man with a sharp voice.

The first international match was to be in the Netherlands, and Patrick was expected to attend- because apparently, and _much to his surprise_ \- he’d been deemed one of the best doctors in his field, and while he supposed he should have been flattered- and while he really wanted to call his old teacher who said he’d never amount to anything and promptly tell her to ‘ _suck it_ ’- he was really fucking mad that he was expected to follow the US national team around the world for the entire pre-cup season, and leave his son for two months.

 

_Jesus Christ._

 

Patrick trudged out of the meeting room, groaning and flopping down in a waiting room chair, pressing his face into his hands with a heavy groan. His mind was racing with options, and possibilities- Oh god, he had _nobody_ to look after Declan, and he couldn’t just leave him alone.

That was one of the many, many downsides of being a single parent- your child had nobody to rely on but _you_.

 

 

“What’s up?”

 

 

Patrick looked up from his hands with wide eyes- before instantly scowling and glowering. The bane of his life stood before him. The redhead buried his face again, voice muffled against his palms. “None of your business.”

 

Pete laughed quietly and took a seat next to him, nudging Patrick’s knee with his own. “C’mon.”

 

Over around three months, Declan and Saint had gotten along like a house on fire, and had actually become best friends. It turns out that Saint hadn't inhereted his father's charisma, on top of missing out on his soccer skills, and was painfully shy- making it very hard for him to make any friends. Thankfully, Declan was bubbly enough to be friendly for the both of them, and they had a natural affinity for each other.

 

Patrick was happy his son had made such a good friend.

 

...But it meant that Pete and Patrick now saw _a lot_ of each other- even _too much_ of each other, if you asked Patrick, both _in_ and _out_ of working hours. And since they now had to suffer each other’s presence very frequently, they had also opted to cool the insults, arguments and yelling- becoming more... _neutral_ towards each other- instead of actively being rivals.

 

Patrick glanced up at Pete and sighed heavily. “I was chosen as one of the world cup doctors-”

 

“That’s great news though- means you’re one of the best in the whole _country_.”

 

 

_Let me finish you dick._

 

 

“-But it means I have to leave Declan for two months.”  
  
Pete shrugged, “So, just leave him with your parents.” Patrick gave a stifled groan, and whined into his palms again, shaking his head. “No, I _really can’t_. They live in _Illinois_ , and- and fuck- I have to leave in _two days_ , a-and, I still have to _pack_ , and _plan_ , and _go over records_ , and- I don’t have _time_ to drive him there.”

 

Pete looked thoughtful, chewing his lip for a moment, he stared at Patrick, before his lips twitched upwards slightly and he shrugged lightly.

 

“Leave him at my house.”

 

“... _Okay_...A: that’s really creepy-”

 

“Don’t be a dick-”

 

“B: You’re going to be gone too, you’re literally America’s _best_ striker-”

“Well, don’t let Urie or Joseph hear you say that. _Favouritism_.” Patrick scowled at Pete’s cheeky grin, and sighed, gesturing for him to continue.

 

“Well, the way _I see it_ , Saint has been begging me to let Declan have a sleepover- I just haven’t had time, what with _all the_ _training_ , but now they can have a two month long sleepover- they'll be fine, dude-”

 

“...They can’t just _live_ on the junk food you leave for them for _TWO MONTHS, PETE_ -”

 

“Meagan’ll be there, god, _chill out_.”

 

Patrick cocked an eyebrow. “She will?”

Pete scoffed and nodded obviously. “Uh, yeah? She doesn’t even have an _actual_ job, dude- look, it’ll be _fine_.”

Patrick stared. He hated that he was actually considering this, but- Fuck, he didn’t have any other really viable options. Patrick glared up into Pete’s eyes with a furrowed brow; They seemed truthful, and actually... _kind_ , for once.

 

“Okay. Sure.”

 

Patrick glanced up nervously, “Thanks.” Pete nodded with a smile, nudging Patrick’s ribs with his elbow playfully and getting up as he bid a silent farewell with a mock salute.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“Declan! Come see my new Xbox! It’s 4k!”

 

Patrick didn’t know what most of that meant, but by Declan’s gasp of awe, he assumed it was very expensive.

 

Both boys moved to dart upstairs, but Meagan suddenly cried out with a loud yell, eyes wide and panicky. “Don’t make a mess. Not too loud either.” Saint seemed to shrink back a little, “Yes Meagan.” before turning to Declan and perking up again, before boys raced upstairs with giggles and speeding footfalls.

 

Patrick’s brow had furrowed of its own accord when he’d heard what Saint had called the woman. Hadn’t Pete said she was his _mom_ …? Had he actually meant ‘ _step-mom_ ’…?

There was a loud noise from upstairs, and Meagan whined pitifully, before running upstairs too.

 

  
Patrick glanced at Pete from the corner of his eye, watching the man root around in a rucksack that lay on the kitchen counter. Patrick leaned against said counter and exhaled heavily.

 

 

 

“...You know Declan’s gonna be begging me for a ‘ _4k Xbox_ ’ now, right?"

 

Pete grinned, and looked up. “ _Aw_ ,” He reached over to pinch Patrick’s cheek, putting on a baby voice. “ _I’ll pay for it_.”

Patrick shoved him away with a glare, “Fuck off.”

 

 

 

 

 

“You behave, alright Declan?”

 

“Yes dad, I promise.”

 

Patrick squinted at his son’s tone, but huffed in amusement when the boy hugged him tightly, arms wrapping around his father’s neck, and face smushed into his shoulder. Declan sniffed in Patrick’s ear, and whispered quietly. “I’ll miss you dad.” Patrick rubbed his back and whispered back, “I’ll miss you too." He pulled back to grin at his son and laugh, ruffling his reddish-blonde hair. "But I’ll be back to nag you before you even know it.”

Declan laughed loudly as his father stood up straight again, and the boy wiped his eyes with his sleeve.

 

Patrick glanced to the front door of the house, watching Pete bid goodbye to Saint- only, _that_ boy looked much more reluctant to let his father leave.

Saint was sobbing quietly, and Patrick could just about strain his ears enough to hear Saint’s whimpers of ‘ _please_ ’, and Pete’s miserable laments of ‘ _I’m sorry_ ’.

The dark-haired boy clung to his dad like a goddamn monkey on steroids, refusing to let him stand again. Pete took the boy’s face in his hands, whispering words of encouragement with wide, assuring eyes. The boy sniffed and nodded sadly as Pete kissed his forehead and stood, turning to Meagan- who had been awkwardly shifting a few feet behind them.

The man kissed her deeply, hands on her cheeks as she linked her arms over his neck, pressing herself closer.

 

 

“Ew.”

 

_Agreed._

 

Patrick laughed quietly, pressing a palm to his mouth, and still shaking with mirth as he looked down at his son’s disgusted, contorted expression that was staring up at his dad.

Eventually Pete pulled away, and with one last ruffle of Saint’s hair, he stepped out towards his car.

 

Patrick’s brow furrowed at the little boy in the doorway, who was now steadily dissolving back into sobs, pressing his sleeved wrists and palms to his eyes. The redhead leaned down to his son, hand patting his head encouragingly. “Why don’t y’go cheer him up, Dec?”

Declan nodded eagerly, and with one last quick, tight hug to his father, he ran back to the doorway, quickly engulfing Saint in a bone-crushing hug- which the dark-haired boy accepted immediately, burying his face in the redheaded boy's shoulder. They pulled away after a second, and Declan seemed to make a suggestion which made Saint burst into unbridled laughter as they darted away into the house, making Meagan’s eyes shoot open wide and chase after them, slamming the door behind her.

 

 

Patrick glanced over at Pete, whose arm was resting on the roof of his car- a shiny, red Ferrari that Patrick had seen parked around the StubHub stadium a few times- usually accompanied by a crowd taking pictures of the masterpiece of a vehicle.

Pete’s eyes were locked on his house, and he was worrying his bottom lip between his teeth. Patrick could tell he was filled with anxiety, and opted to make an attempt to help. He cleared his throat, making the whiskey-brown eyes lock onto him instead.

 

“...Are-uh, are you okay?”

 

Pete swallowed thickly, but nodded- all while looking _so somber_ that Patrick didn’t believe it for a second. Pete must have noticed the skeptical glint in the baby-blue eyes, because he immediately sighed heavily, eyes shifting down to the ground.

 

“...Can I...talk, to you about it?”

 

Patrick’s eyes widened, and Pete’s looked up- eyes immediately flooding with regret and hesitation at Patrick's shock. “Oh d-don’t worry-”  
  
“-No!” Patrick’s eyes widened even further, and he tried to look assuring. “I’d uh- _like_ to, it’s totally fine.”

Pete nodded, eyes calming down again, and he glanced up at Patrick. His lips twitched up into a grateful smile, and he had made a move to duck into his car, but had burst into wild laughter, and was practically stuck in place with laughter- all caused by pressing question from Patrick.

 

 

 

“She’s not gonna kill my kid, right?”

 

 

 

 

 

 

“Alright calm down, it wasn’t that funny.”

 

Pete had been giggling at the question for the whole duration of _driving to the airport_ , _waiting for the flight_ , and then, _boarding the plane_.

Patrick thought it was a _serious_ overreaction.

 

“- _Yes it was_.”

Patrick glared half-heartedly, before dropping down into his seat. Pete instantly dropped into the seat next to him, making the redhead furrow his brow.

 

“...These are the staff seats, you’re supposed to be in like- the fuckin’- players' _cabins_.”

 

Pete shrugged, raising his eyebrows at the younger man. “D’you wanna come to my cabin?”

 

“Ew, no thanks.” Patrick answered with a wrinkled nose, but it only served to make the player tilt his head back in silent laughter again.

The older man shuffled into the business-class leather seat, “Well, I guess I’ll just stay here then.” He looked over at Patrick’s blank expression with an impish smile.

“You did promise to talk.”

 

Patrick stifled a sigh and raised his eyebrows at Pete questioningly, before gesturing lazily with a pale hand. “Go on then. Tell me what’s wrong.”

There was a long silence, and a thoughtful expression flickering in Pete's eyes.

 

 

“...Can I talk to you as a... _friend_ …?”

 

 

Pete’s expression was timid, and it made Patrick’s eyes squint in surprise.

“Y’know, instead of a...therapist?” The older man sighed, rubbing at his temples with his hand. “I’ve talked to way _too many_ therapists, can’t stand ‘em anymore.”

 

Patrick was technically a therapist, but he bit back any insulted feelings, and nodded slowly with the ghost of a smile. “...Sure then...as a friend.”

Pete smiled again, although there was a certain gratefulness- coupled with a sadness, behind it.

 

Pete exhaled heavily, puffing out his cheeks and picking at the leather armrest.

 

“Meagan uh- she, she had some... _problems_ , when Saint was born.”

 

Pete looked up to Patrick, and only found acceptance in his eyes.

 

“W-Well, she- she almost died, almost bled out...And _then_ she got something- _fuck_ , I don’t remember what it was called- something sciencey, like- like ‘ _post syndrome_ ’…?”

Patrick’s brow furrowed and he cocked his head at the odd phrase Pete had tried- before his mind snapped the clues together like a puzzle: Birth + Post = Postnatal depression- of course, and it explained so much. It explained why Saint had called his mom by her first name- they hadn't bonded properly.

 

“Was it, ‘ _Postnatal depression_ ’...?”

 

Pete’s eyes suddenly widened in realization and he nodded frantically. “Yeah, yeah! That was it, and she like, hated Saint- like so much, it was terrifying. She couldn't even look at him, she'd start yelling and freakin' out.” Pete exhaled, eyes flooding with misery again. “The amount of times I came home jus’ to find Saint fuckin'- _screaming_ , and- and Meagan, jus’ like, locked in the bathroom, or, or just swimming-”

 

Pete chewed on his lip, eyes suddenly getting teary. “O-Once I- uh, came home from training and, and I found her on the uh- on the- the edge of the pool- over, the- the-”

 

The cliff.

 

Yes, Patrick knew the cliff.

 

And what Meagan had tried was one of the reasons why Patrick shuddered at the sight.

 

“She jus’ stood there, looking down, and Saint was crying from his room- he was- uh, he was only like, a month old.”

 

Pete looked as though he was reliving the memory in his head, his eyes were getting damp. “I was so scared. I-I, didn’t know what she was gonna do.”

 

Patrick had an urge to comfort the man, but he also knew he shouldn’t interrupt. It _felt_ like this was the first time Pete had relived that memory- the first time he'd told the story, and Patrick knew that while _it hurt like hell_ \- it was progress.

 

“I-I tried to talk her down, and she just started crying, and she- she was gonna fall- but I-I ran forwards and I grabbed her, pulled her back.” Pete’s eyes were watering now, and their gaze was firmly locked on the seat in front of him. “I just held her- and she, she just _cried_ , begged for forgiveness.” Pete huffed in disbelief. “ _Her_ , begging _me_ \- for _forgiveness_.’ He scoffed at that, before nervously glancing up at Patrick and laughing awkwardly. “S-Sorry about that, just kind...went off on a _tangent_ -”

 

 

“Don’t apologize.”

 

Patrick’s face was serious, and his eyes were steeled in compassion. “My wife had...postnatal depression too.” Pete’s eyes widened softly. “She- She never tried to kill herself but...but she neglected Declan- a lot. And I-I was at college all the time, so...” Patrick shook his head, raising his eyebrows softly. “It’s a miracle social services didn’t take him away, or something. Or, t-that uh- that he didn't die from- from hunger or something.”

Patrick felt a twinge of guilt at moving the conversation away from Pete’s issue, but it faded when he glanced up to see Pete’s soft, interested, and empathetic eyes.

“I-I just meant that...” Patrick exhaled softly, mouth poised as though he were whistling. “I get it.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

So, Amsterdam was pretty interesting.

Patrick had some free time while the players were training for the match in the evening, so he had taken the liberty of idly walking around- pretending to sightsee, but in truth, the sights and landmarks passed in a blur, as his mind was completely stuck on the conversation with Pete during the plane journey.

After the story, and some heartfelt disscussion- Pete had stayed with the doctors for about two hours, intent on annoying Patrick by poking him and telling him mundane facts about all kinds of random shit, but after a while the redhead had become unresponsive as he’d fallen asleep. Pete had left then, and had gone to his cabin- which _literally had games consoles embedded into the wall_ and Patrick had been so fucking jealous when he'd found out. But it wasn't all bad; Patrick had woken up alone, and free of the irritating jabs courtesy of Pete Wentz.

 

 

After trudging around the city, mind buzzing with depressed mothers, starving babies and suicide attempts- Patrick had decided to go back to the hotel and try to put it out of this mind by taking a nap. He still had some time before the pre-match assessments, and he was gonna make the most of it.

 

 

There were a lot of perks of travelling with a national soccer team- For example, expensive, five-star hotels and giant suites were just one of many.

 

Sofitel Legend The Grand- Amsterdam.

The hotel was literally the most amazing place Patrick had ever step foot in, and he was 100% sure that it had been grossly expensive. He’d actually refused, head ducking and speeding away with a flinch, when one of the coordinators had made an attempt to tell him just how much _each room_ cost- and when you considered it was a line-up of 14 players (the first squad _AND_ the substitues), along with a whole crowd of medical staff, managers, and publicity managers- the US soccer board must have been spending a small fortune on the hotel _alone_.

 

 

Patrick walked up the extravagant stairs to his room, he moved over to his door and fished around for his key in his pocket. Suddenly his ear twitched, and his head turned as he heard hurried whispers from two hooded figures, who were- _very suspiciously_ , tugging at one of the door handles, to what Patrick was _pretty sure_ , was Joe’s room.

 

Now, Patrick wasn’t very- _physically_ , confrontational- sure he could own someone and get them to sit the fuck down in a verbal arguement, but he wasn't a very strong guy- physically.

 

...but he couldn’t just let two probable thieves, or insane fans, break into his charge’s- and _friend’s_ , room.

 

“Hey.” Patrick barked sharply from down the hall, gulping and readying himself for the prospect of a fight by clenching his hands into tight fists, puffing himself up to look taller- but drawing the line at standing on his tiptoes. Suddenly, both figures looked up to the voice with a flinch- hoods slipping back slightly to reveal-

 

Fucking hell- _Seriously?_

 

Brendon and Andy. Of- _fucking_ -course.

 

 

“O-oh hey Patrick!” Andy grinned nervously, making Brendon lean on his shoulder and beam- desperately trying to play it cool. “Hey Stumph! H-How you doin’?”

 

“... _What are_ _you_ _doing_?”

 

Both men looked at each other nervously, before back at Patrick's terrifying glare, and instantly relenting. “We were...” Brendon sighed dramatically, voice slowing down from the loud, frantic, stuttering shout it had been a mere few seconds ago. “Trying to sneak out.”

Patrick’s brow furrowed instantly. “Why do you have to ‘ _sneak_ ’?”

 

They both raised their eyebrows, mouths opening, and Patrick sensed an oncoming rant.

 

“Fuckin’ Leighton _quarantined_ us-”

 

“Do you even know what 'quarantined' _means_ , Brendon?”

 

Silence.

 

Thought so.

 

Patrick sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “But, why are you breaking into _Joe’s_ room?”

Brendon grinned again. “We wanted him to come with- we all wanna, catch-up!”

 

“You guys know each other? Like, from outside of-?”

 

“Yes, and if you help us escape- I’ll tell you the story of how we all met!” Brendon bargained, pulling out his best charming, 1950s ‘ _salesman_ ’ voice.

Both Patrick’s expression and response was deadpan.

 

“No.”

 

“Please.” Two conjoined, pleading voices rang through the hall, and both faces lit up in begging grins. Patrick stifled a sigh, and was about to make his disapproval clear when-

 

 

“What the hell is going on out here?”

 

Joe’s head peeked out from behind his door, and he squinted at the duo, and then at Patrick. The redhead suddenly realized that Joe was dressed in a similar fashion to Brendon and Andy- hoodies to cover eyes, scarves to cover mouths, gloves to hide any tattoos or scars on their hands- _Jesus H. Christ_ , were they _actual teenagers_ trying to sneak out from their parent’s houses?

 

“We’re goin’ out!”

 

“No, you’re not.”

 

Brendon jutted his lip out at Patrick, “Dude, _c’mooon_ , help ya brothers out.”

 

“A- Not ' _ya_ ' brother. B- If I saw you leaving and I didn't stop you, I’ll get fired.”

Joe grinned and huffed in amusement, stepping out of his room and locking it, before gingerly stepping over to Patrick, as though he was approaching a steel hunting trap. “Patrick…?” Joe carefully placed a hand on his shoulder, Patrick simply stared forwards at the man blankly.

 

Why was he a pushover? Why had the gods cursed him so?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“Y’know, the hotel is _literally_ a work of art. Why did you want to leave an actual work of art to come... _here_ …?”

Patrick coughed at the heavy, misted air of the bar- aptly named ‘Smoky’.

Brendon grinned, leaning back in his chair, pulling his hood further down, and motioning his head at the menu- neatly written in different colored chalk on a large, black chalkboard. “There’s no weed at the hotel- but there _is_ _here_.”

Patrick frowned at the menu- lists upon lists of different types of weed- all slang names, of course. Patrick wouldn’t have even known that there were so many types, if he hadn’t had to study _every single one_ \- _and_ all of their effects, during the ‘ _recreational drugs_ ’ semester. All because a few stoners were very creative. Fantastic.

 

“Hey, you’ll ignore the weed during the tests, right?”

Patrick glared, like the disapproving mother hen he was.

 

“Oh shit!” Brendon exhaled smoke, pulled back his joint and pointed at Patrick, “I haven’t even told you the story of how we know Joe!”

Patrick glanced between Joe, Andy and Brendon, and shook his head. “Oh, it’s okay, you don’t-”

 

“WELL, it all started when we were at this _INSANE_ -”

  
Patrick begged god to strike him down.

 

 

 

 

 

“And, well, that’s it! Good times- from back when Joe didn’t have a ball and chain.”

“Marie’s not a ‘ _ball-and-chain_ ’ Brendon.” Joe and Andy laughed, and Brendon grinned, and then spoke with an exaggerated, sarcastic wink. “ _Suuuure_ , she’s not.”

Andy sighed contently, “Yeah, that was way back when you were free, Joe.”

 

“I’m still free!”

 

Brendon shook his head as he exhaled smoke, “Nah, you can’t be free AND be a dad, s’one or the other.” Joe shook his head with a grin, “Well I’d rather be an incarcerated dad then.”

“Aw, ain’t that sweet!” Brendon chimed with his best southern accent, raising his eyebrows and grinning, while punching at Joe’s shoulder lightly.

 

“Wait, why are you guys only picking on _me_ for having a family?” Joe raised an eyebrow, and gestured at Brendon. “You aren't ' _free_ ' either, you’re literally _married_ Brendon.”

The steadily-stoning man shook his head, red eyes lidded. “Nah, nah, nah- A really chill wife is not the same as a kid, ‘kay?”

“Hopefully _not_.” Andy mumbled with a grin, making the other three- even Patrick burst into laughter. “Ugh gross,” Joe shuddered dramatically, before gesturing at Patrick. “Well, Patrick’s got a kid too, pick on _him_ for a while.”

Patrick rolled his eyes fondly, “Alright fine, I don’t care.”

Andy cocked an eyebrow, “Ball-and-chain too?”

Uh oh.

Brendon shut up, don't you dare-

Brendon quickly shook his head, “Nah, Stumph’s divorced.”

 

  
And cue the awkward silence.

 

“Oh, dude, I’m so sorry-”

  
  
“S’fine, really.”

  
  
Patrick had gotten enough pity over the years since his divorce to last him, not one, but- _ten fucking_ lifetimes- he didn’t need anymore. And he didn’t really blame Brendon either, the guy had a pretty severe case of ADHD, and stuff just seemed to slip out of his mouth, unasked for. Patrick noticed Brendon shirk back at his outburst, looking ashamed while mouthing a small ' _sorry_ '.

 

“How did it- I mean, dude that’s really rough.” Joe grimaced, looking up at Patrick with concerned eyes, letting his hood slip off of his head, while Andy only stayed silent, and looked thoughtful.

 

“She left me,” The redhead shrugged, speaking blankly. “She had an affair, fell in love with the other guy- I wasn’t paying her enough attention ‘cause I was studying.”

 

“Custody battle? For your kid?”

 

Patrick shook his head, and they left it at that- and Brendon swiftly corrected his mistake, by quickly moving the conversation away from the somber topic.

 

 

 

“Oh my god, is that _Trohman_?”

 

“No fucking way, that’s _Hurley_ a-and _Urie_ too!”

The four friends shrunk in their seats, and all turned in the direction of the excited voices to find a crowded, twelve-seater table of jersey-clad, stars and stripes face-painted, American soccer fans- all faces painted in joyful admiration mixed with shock. They all burst out of their seats, and the three friends were overwhelmed by a maelstrom of begs for selfies, pleads for signatures, and tearful confessions of love, support and praise.

 

Patrick had only buried his face in his hands, hoping they wouldn’t get caught, and also begging god, or the universe, or _whatever_ \- that he would never have to chaperone any man-children ever again.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The chosen squad were deemed healthy and fine to play.

Patrick, Borisova, Dahlman and Clements- another doctor chosen from Ohio, had examined, poked and prodded at all eleven players:

  * Three strikers: Pete, Brendon and Dallon- who was standing in for Tyler until his knee was fully healed.
  * Three midfielders: Josh Dun, Gerard Way and Mikey Way- the latter two who Patrick had learnt _were_ _in fact brothers_.
  * Four defenders: Andy, Frank Iero, Ray Toro, and Ryan Ross- and finally:
  * One goalie: Joe.



Patrick sat in the benches at the Amsterdam ArenA- and yes, it did have a misplaced capital, and it had made Patrick's inner grammar nazi kick in, as he found himself glaring at the stadium sign every now and then.

He sat alongside the substitute players, the manger, and the three other doctors. The American fans were a few meters behind him in the stands, some were clad in jerseys, some waved placards with marriage proposals, and some wrapped themselves in the American flag- and everyone was waiting for the game to begin.

 

The players emerged in single file lines once again, leaving the tunnel to the overwhelming cheers and shouts of both Dutch, and American fans. The Dutch players were clad in bright orange kits, while the Americans wore black, away-kits, the only colors reminiscent of the American flag being a right red shoulder, and a blue left one.

 

The match had been fairly uneventful for a while- well, it had been for _Patrick_ , anyway; The score had been tied at 2-2, after the total of four goals had been scored in the first twenty minutes of the match. While the crowds had taken to singing national songs, trying to outdo their rivals for the night, occasionally loud cheers and shouts of encouragement would roar every time a striker managed to tear away from the opposing midfielders. But the defenders- both the Dutch and the Americans, seemed to be on the top of their games today, and were determined to stop any attempts at goals before they even began.

 

Patrick watched Ryan quickly tackle the ball from a Dutch striker- whose bright shirt read ‘ _Robben_ ’, and then clear it far from the American goal with a loud, thudding kick. The ball shot over to the midfield and the crowd roared suddenly as Gerard stopped it with his chest, bouncing it to his foot and kicking it to Brendon. The ball shot across the grass, and Brendon ran alongside it to catch up.

When he finally had the ball at his feet, he was stopped by a defender, who was watching his moves carefully. Brendon shifted the ball back, before clipping it between his heels and flicking it over the man’s head, before shoving past him and catching the ball again.

 

Dallon was closest, so Brendon kicked the ball over to him. Dallon instantly slipped the ball between another defender’s legs and it shot straight towards Pete.

Pete sprinted towards the goal, chopping the ball to the side to gracefully drift past the last defender. The goal was only about four meters away, this was it, they were going to win-

Then, Pete stumbled down into the grass as the last defender- jersey reading ‘ _Blind_ ’ in white letters, had made a point of chasing him and tripping him from behind, by sliding on the grass and kicking his legs against Pete's, trying to swipe them from under him- but the Dutchman’s gamble hadn’t paid off.

As Pete lost his balance and slipped to the ground, he just managed to kick the ball into the back of the net, shooting into the bottom left corner, just past the goalie's dive.

 

The crowd roared, but Patrick’s eyes widened as he watched Pete jump to his feet, only to be shoved back down into the dirt by Blind- who, from the way his head was moving, looked like he was yelling.

Patrick watched Pete growl, and he could practically hear it ringing in his ears, as the man got back on his feet and pushed the Dutchman back by the shoulders with a rough shove. They started yelling at each other, faces centimetres away, and fists clenched. Pete knees were covered in green grass stains and brown soil, and Patrick noticed they looked a little red too. He made a note to check them later.

Some other players had noticed the steadily-escalating argument, and were jogging over- when Pete relaxed.

 

Oh shit.

 

Patrick knew exactly what that meant.

 

Pete held his hands up and looked to be apologizing, his posture became submissive, and his head ducked as he held out an amicable hand for the other man to shake.

Blind exhaled heavily, but went to take the hand- before a lightning fast punch hit him in square in the face.

With a pained yell, even Patrick could hear from across the length of the pitch- the Dutch player hunched over instantly, screaming painfully into his hands, as Pete stalked away with a smug smirk.

 

But it wasn’t over yet.

 

Patrick watched with wide eyes as Blind glanced up from his hands, nose bleeding and going purple, mouth twisted into a snarl and eyes full of murder. He sprinted forwards, and Pete only turned at the last minute, managing to direct the fist away from his face, but instead- it landed straight into his Adam’s apple with a bruising force.

Pete hands leapt to his neck, and he collapsed to his knees, back hunching over and spluttering as he struggled to breathe. Teammates started _sprinting_ over- finally arriving to calm tensions and to help the injured, as both American and Dutch doctors leapt to their feet.

Frank had managed to hitch Pete to his feet, supporting him on his shoulder, while Andy and Dallon tried to diffuse Blind’s temper. Brendon, Josh and Gerard tried to calm tensions with the Netherlands team, apologizing for their wrongdoings, but still defending their striker.

 

Patrick and Borisova reached Pete first, Clements and Dahlman were talking to a Dutch doctor, and Patrick didn’t know what it was about, but the animated, wild gesturing made him assume it wasn’t good.

Pete gave a stifled whine as Patrick’s fingers drifted over his darkening Adam’s apple and the doctor grimaced. “Get him inside, to the clinic.” Borisova announced, eyes flitting around nervously.

 

“-Quickly.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“You could have died, Pete- Stop fucking giggling, it’s serious.”

 

Pete grinned up at Patrick from his seat on the medical table, he still couldn’t speak, and was most likely in immense pain, but had somehow found the whole situation hilarious.

Patrick growled quietly, marching over to the older man and glaring him in the eye, raising his voice in pure anger.

 

“That punch could have crushed your windpipe, and you would have suffocated to death on that pitch. You hear me? You get it?”

 

Patrick tilted his head and shook it lightly, eyes still burning and lip curling. “You would have left your sons, your girlfriend, your family- and right now, we’d be pronouncing you dead and arranging a plane to send your corpse home. It’s _not_ _fucking funny_ , Pete.”

 

The older man’s eyes sobered at that, and he shrunk back timidly as relief mixed with fear flashed through his watery eyes. He chewed his lip and nodded, lowering his head.

Patrick exhaled shakily and moved away, mouth still twisted into a scowl as he cleaned and put equipment away. “Could you just _imagine_ for a sec- what Saint would have thought?”

He turned to glare at the- already ashamed man, but fuck- he didn't fucking understand, and goddamnit, Patrick was going to _make him_ understand.

 

“He’s expecting you home- totally fucking safe and sound, but instead, you arrive in a coffin.” Patrick slammed a cupboard shut, before leaning a hand on the counter. His knuckles were white, and his posture was tense. “And Meagan? Having to deal with depression _AND_ with you dying. D’you get that?”

 

Pete’s head only ducked lower, and his shoulders trembled. He was crying. Patrick could tell.

 

The baby-blues softened, and the redhead sighed quietly, moving over to Pete and standing a few inches away. “Look at me, Pete.”

The older man looked up with red eyes, and he quickly tried wiping them- but Patrick had already seen the heavy, free-flowing tears. Patrick pulled a pack of tissues from his pocket, and handed one to Pete. The man took it, but only balled it nervously in his hand. More tears came, and he exhaled silently, but shakily, and opted to dab at his eyes with the scrunched up ball.

Patrick spoke again, but his voice was soft and all the judging accusation was gone.

 

“You have people who need you, and not just for your money- but for _you_. Remember that, and please- don’t be so reckless next time.” The words ended sternly- Patrick just couldn’t stop the tone from shining through. He was so fucking mad, he just couldn't help it.

Pete looked grateful...and, surprise glinted in his eyes at the words. He nodded, and dropped his head again, moving a tentative hand to his bruised neck.

 

“It’s gonna take a week to heal.” Patrick answered his question before it even came- not that it would have come anyway, Pete would be mute for at least three days.

“You’ll be able to speak again in three days at most.” Pete nodded nervously, hand gently wrapping around his neck, and gulping. He winced at the pain, and Patrick sighed quietly, reaching into the drug cupboard. He pulled out a few boxes of painkillers, and walked over to Pete, offering to him.

Pete stared at them, and cocked his head like a confused dog, making Patrick smile softly.

 

“Take two of these and call me in the morning.”

 

Pete laughed, head tilting back, but no noise escaped his abused vocal chords. Patrick shook his head with a smile as the boxes were tugged from his hand, and the older man read them with interest, before looking up at Patrick skeptically, with a cocked eyebrow.

 

  
“Trust me, you’re _gonna_ need them.”

 

 

Pete gulped.

 

 


	6. Hit Me Like A Tidal Wave, Triggered By The Aftershock

 

So it seemed the universe- or god, or _whatever_ \- had completely ignored Patrick’s pleads of never having to chaperone man-children again- because _here he was_ , in a _club_ , in _Tokyo_ , looking after _15 drunk players_.

 

He wasn’t supposed to be doing this alone, Clements and the new doctor from Ohio had been sent out too- but apparently, _they_ weren’t as responsible as Patrick was, Patrick idly wondered if it was because he had Declan- Patrick had had to mature quickly when Declan had been born, there had been no room for being selfish or dumb. He sighed heavily and cast his gazed across the room; Clements was currently trying to hook up with a girl in a booth, and the doctor from Ohio had passed out with his head on the bar- right next to Patrick.

 

The team had flown to Japan for their last ‘ _away_ ’ international match, and were due to head back to the US tomorrow. There would be final preparations, more filming for adverts, more promotions, more training- and then, they would fly to Russia for the World Cup.

Patrick was expected to attend, but he wasn’t eager to leave Declan for another month. He’d been Skyping with Declan every night, trying to stay awake and call at times that would be convenient for his son- being in different time zones was hell.

Patrick also knew, _for a fact_ , that Pete did the same- for both Saint _AND_ Bronx. And it would _definitely_ show when the player marched up to the pitch with eyebags, bed hair, and an irritable mood. Although, despite their best striker being half-asleep, they'd won the match against Japan with ease, 4-1; Pete even managed to score two by himself, and assist Tyler Joseph's goal.

Thankfully, there had been no fights, and Patrick had been profoundly relieved. Since his last confrontation, Pete’s throat had healed perfectly- despite the bruised windpipe, and, just as Patrick had predicted, he was back to chattering like a parrot stuffed with caffine in three days.

 

Patrick poked at the Ohio doctor’s head, and only received a whining groan in response. The redhead sighed, leaned against the bar, arms crossed and eyes flitting over all the painted pop art over the walls. It was- visually, a pretty cool place, but Patrick was pretty sure there were drugs being passed around. He could smell it. He’d been trained like a goddamn sniffer dog- he could literally smell a drug in a room and instantly know what type it was, and _what it_ _did_.

 

“Heeeey, Stuuumphhh, buuuudyy-”

Brendon stumbled over to him, locking an arm around his neck and leaning his head on the shorter man's shoulder with a content sigh. Patrick scowled, shaking his head at the player disapprovingly. “Why aren’t you drinkin’ bud?” Brendon’s face moved up, sitting inches away from his cheek. Patrick’s nose wrinkled at the overwhelming smell of- almost antiseptic-like, alcohol. He coughed slightly, pressing a fist to his mouth. “Oh, god _what is that?_ ”

Brendon grinned, staring down at the two shot glasses in his hand. One contained electric blue alcohol- that almost looked to be glowing, and was reminiscent of some weird potion shit from Harry Potter. The other contained red liquid, and it seemed just as fluorescent- almost glowing in the dim, colored lights of the bar.

As Patrick was temporarily distracted by the vibrant colors, and was- scientifically assessing just how that it was possible to have non-toxic glow-in-the dark liquid- his head was pulled back. Liquid flooded his throat in the worst way and he had a coughing fit, hunching over the bar. He glanced back to see Brendon- looking very satisfied, smug, and holding two- now empty, shot glasses. The player pulled him up, arm locking around his neck again. Patrick tried to push him away, but he was too weak, the alcohol was already messing him up- _oh god, this already fucking sucked_.

“S’a thing they sell here,” Brendon motioned to the empty glasses, “S’called ‘ _After Shock_ ’, it like- turns into like- fuckin’ _crystals_ inside of you-”

Patrick felt sick.

“-And, you get drunker as time goes on- S’fucking amazing, fuckin’ _science_ amirite?”

Patrick only groaned, burying his- already pounding head, in his hands. He heard a painfully loud yell- way too loud for his abused head anyway.

"See ya later, Stumph, _enjoooooy yourself!_ "

But Patrick only whined in response. He tried to walk after Brendon- that motherfucker deserved a beating, ADHD or no ADHD- but Patrick could only stumble. His shaking knees buckled and he clung onto the bar with both arms stretching over the wood, and both hands clinging to the far edge, holding on for dear life- promptly earning an odd look from the bartender, who eventually shrugged and kept polishing glasses.

 

Eventually, Patrick managed to regain some control of his motor functions, and he willed his legs to walk forwards. He stumbled around the club like a gangly, baby horse taking its first steps- wait, _baby horse_...no that didn’t sound right...was- was it a ‘ _fool_ ’…? No, that’s mean, why would they ridicule baby horses like that? Baby horses are adorable- goddamnit Patrick hated being drunk.

 

He eventually crashed into a small dark corner, back leaning against the wall as he sagged down- just managing to stay upright by digging his trembling feet into the floor. Patrick leaned his head back against the wall, whining tiredly. He felt pathetic- and he probably looked like it too, but he’d never been a ‘ _party guy_ ’. In high school, he’d just spent all his time in the library, reading through medical books, making really lame study notes, and just, well- _preparing for med-school_. And because of that, he’d never learnt, or, built up a tolerance for alcohol- literally one shot of the right stuff could get him instantly blackout-drunk, and two could instantly _knock him out_. And well, he felt like that ‘ _After Shock_ ’ shit was really working- the room was spinning, the floor felt uneven and permanently tilting and shifting, and everything was louder, more vibrant, more unfocused.

 

Patrick suddenly heard a voice from his side, he looked up with drunk, squinty eyes and he saw a young Japanese girl, who looked to be a waitress, or something...were they called waitresses here? Patrick didn’t know, and pondered it for a minute, before he heard her speak again, smiling kindly. She was holding a shiny, metal plate tray, dotted with small, seperated piles of coloured powders- that looked reminiscent of exotic spices or something. There was blue, yellow, red, purple, green, pink- just about every color Patrick could remember existed right now.

Was she offering him help? Was she telling him to get the fuck out? _Send in your answers now!_

...But he didn’t know what she was saying, because he didn’t speak Japanese, and any attempt he could have made to communicate with her _sober_ , was now impossible because of the state of his inebriated mind.

She spoke again, foreign words buzzing faintly in Patrick’s ears. Her tone seemed kind, and helpful, so he nodded, in some vain hope that she would tell him where the bathroom was because Patrick was 100% going to throw up. She beamed, and suddenly a cloud of red colored powder was blown into Patrick’s face. He started coughing, and retching as she moved away, airily gliding over to another group of people. Patrick whimpered, pressing a hand to his face, when-

 

Patrick felt alert. He felt awake. All the dizziness and blurriness had melted away, and before him stood a crisp, clear room. He could see everything, everyone, everything was so clear, so focused- if someone put him in a lab right now, he was pretty sure he could have found the cure for cancer.

...But then that started melting away too, and Patrick was left between skittish and dazed, in euphoria and mania at the same time. His heart was pounding in his chest, but his tongue was slow and felt like a dead weight in his mouth.

 

Patrick looked around with a shaky exhale, before stopping on a pair of doors- _the bathrooms_. He needed to wake himself up, and a splash of icy water would probably do the trick. Patrick pushed himself from the wall and walked forwards, stumbling but nimble at the same time. He’d almost crash into people, but would gracefully move past them at the last second. Patrick really didn’t know what the fuck was going on, but he assumed this was a result of the alcohol he’d been force fed, and the powder he’d unknowingly asked for.

 

Patrick stopped in front of the doors, head cocked.

 

They were black and wooden, and two scroll banners hung down on each one. They were like fucking _manga character_ \- what the _fuck_ -?

Patrick growled and shoved through a random door, promptly heard girlish screaming, exited that door, and stumbled through the other one.

 

Patrick fell against the sink, propping himself up with shaky hands, gripping around smooth and cold, ceramic edges. He stared at himself in the mirror, glaring at the yet _more_ drawn characters, animals and clouds invading the top corners. Patrick leaned forwards, dragging his right cheek down a little with his fingertips to examine his eye: The pupil was blown wide, and only a thin light ring was the only indication that his eyes were actually blue- not _black_. The whites were covered in webs of red lines, and Patrick whined a little- they were _sore_.

 

Suddenly, he heard a door open to his left, but he couldn’t tear himself away from the mirror. His eyes looked drunk, and drugged at the same time- he could tell, and he was worried...but he’d been trained for this- trained to see the signs and diagnose the issue, but…fuck- he wasn’t examining some messed up kid who had stumbled into ER, he was examining himself. And god, seeing himself like this was _scary_. Being so out of it he could do _anything_ , and in the back of his mind, his doctor’s brain screamed at him, yelling at himself for being careless, scolding himself by remembering all the fucked up effects of whatever this shit was.

And that was the worst part: He didn’t know what it was. He had no idea what the powder that had been blown into his face was, and his mind buzzed angrily like a kicked hornet’s nest, ravenously trying to figure it out.

 

 

“Are you okay?”

 

 

Patrick turned to the voice to see- Oh for fuck’s sake, not right now, this was the last thing he needed right now-

 

“Pa'trick, whatthefuck is up with _you_?”

 

Patrick gaped at Pete with a furrowed brow, trying to make up an excuse, but his addled mind refused to do _that_ \- and instead decided to ponder if narwhals actually existed, or if they were distractions created by the government.

A drunk laugh cut his darkening thoughts off, and he looked up at Pete with wide eyes. The soccer player was leaning against another ceramic sink with a hand, grinning drunkenly at Patrick.

 

Oh great, Pete was fucked up too.

 

Patrick was the worst fucking chaperone, in the history of chaperones.

 

“ _Hooooly_ _shit_ , ‘re you drunk too?” Pete grinned with lidded, dazed eyes- And for some fucking _insane_ reason, Patrick smiled and nodded, gazing up at Pete happily. He’d only gotten drunk a few times in his entire life- three times (excluding this one) tops. But from those times, he’d learnt that he was in fact: a _happy_ drunk. He’d giggle irrationally, burst into undeserved laughter, and have a perpetual, bright grin on his face- and that had almost gotten him into a few fights over the years- usually with a couple of _angry_ drunks who found smiles insulting.

 

Pete laughed, leaning forwards and placing a hand on Patrick’s cheek. The younger man flushed red at the contact, and Pete pulled down the skin with his thumb, intently gazing into Patrick’s eye- looking for signs of drunkenness.

Patrick bit the inside of his cheek as he stared at Pete, the close proximity giving him perfect access to all his features.

His whiskey-brown eyes were dilated too, and Patrick wondered if that was due to being drugged too. His blonde-tipped, dark-rooted hair, was a little dishevelled, but it still held its place- swept up and to the side. Patrick’s gaze moved down; Pete’s cheeks were flushed, bright, ember red burning and glowing underneath his warm, caramel skin. The tip of his nose was lined with royal blue powder, along with a light smattering of it all across his face, and Patrick instantly recognized it as one of the shallow piles of powder from the girl’s tray. His lips were parted slightly, and Patrick’s stomach twisted as he watched his tongue poking out to his bottom lip occasionally. Pete suddenly tilted his head with a grin, pulling back a little to stare at Patrick fully.

 

“ _Weeell_ \- I've _examined_ you-" He giggled with a mocking voice and a hiccup, if Patrick was sober he would have rolled his eyes at that. "And Ithink- you are pretty- _very cute_ when you’re drunk.”

Sober Patrick wanted to shove him away, maybe punch him in the face, but Drunk Patrick only laughed wildly, blushed and averted his gaze. Then he was staring up at Pete again, a tanned hand clasped around his jaw and forcing him to look upwards. Pete’s eyes were filled with something Patrick didn’t have the capability to read right now.

The gaze was intense, and a tension filled the room. Patrick subconsciously chewed his lower lip, and before he could register what had happened, he was pressed against a painted wall. Patrick’s skull clattered back against the hard surface, making him groan in pain as his squinted eyes blinked in confusion.

 

Pete stared down at him, caging him with his arms. His eyes were darker now- if possible, and due to the intense gaze, Patrick would have probably guessed he was sober were it not for the smell of alcohol, the drunk eyes and the slurred, mispronounced words.

 

Pete moved his lips inches from Patrick’s, hovering unbearably closely, making Patrick’s already-thundering heart, speed up- Jesus, at this rate he’d have a heart attack, and it would all be _Pete’s_ fault.

 

_Have fun paying for my funeral you dick._

 

The older man exhaled shakily, eyes narrowing, causing the inebriated redhead to subconsciously tilt his head closer and whine.

 

Drunk Patrick needed to chill the fuck out, Sober Patrick was not down for this.

 

And then- Pete’s lips slammed against Patrick’s.

 

What the fuck was going on right now? Was Patrick dead? Was this heaven? Was this hell?

 

Then, a pair of demanding hands grabbing at his hips snapped him back into reality. He was drunk, drugged, in Japan, getting pressed up against a wall by Pete- _motherfucking_ \- Wentz. Patrick wasn’t sure if he liked this timeline or not.

  
Patrick felt teeth bite down on his lip and he moaned, all thoughts flooding back to the present, all attention focusing on the really, _very_ talented mouth against his.

The kiss wasn’t gentle, tender or loving- it was filthy, and behind it were even filthier intentions- And no, Patrick didn’t mean eating everything in the minibar, because while Sober Patrick would have considered _that_ filthy, Drunk Patrick did not.

The sound of clacking teeth snapped Patrick from his thoughts again, and he gave a high-pitched moan as Pete’s tongue rubbed against his own.

Why the fuck did Pete Wentz get to be good at everything? Seriously, this wasn’t fucking fair, Patrick was going to write a serious complaint to god, or to the...human-making department- Patrick didn’t fucking know to _who_ , but he was going to write one anyway.

Saliva dripped down their chins as the kiss grew sloppy, and Drunk Patrick found it hot, while Sober Patrick complained about germs and getting spit stains on his shirt.

 

Suddenly, Pete bucked his hips into Patrick’s roughly. The younger man whimpered and shuddered, hands moving to grip and tug at the blonde-black dyed hair.

Pete started grinding his hips into Patrick's, and each roll made Patrick lose another little piece of his mind. Again, this wasn’t fucking _fair_ , but Patrick decided to make an effort to shut his sober mind up, and just enjoy it. Pete’s lips moved to his ear, licking at the shell and making Patrick shiver, skin covering in goosebumps.

 

“Get on your knees.”

 

Patrick shuddered involuntarily, and instantly obeyed the slurred words. He didn’t really know what Drunk Patrick was doing right now- this wasn’t him, he wasn’t submissive by any means- or at least, _Sober_ Patrick wasn’t. And Sober Patrick was fucking mad right now- Drunk Patrick was ruining their reputation.

Pete jolted his hips forwards again, looking down at Patrick while the younger man quickly and clumsily unzipped his fly, and slid his uncoordinated hand down into Pete’s boxers, gripping his half-hard cock firmly. He tugged it out over the hem of Pete's boxers, and Drunk Patrick whined- successfully embarrassing Sober Patrick to the point of death. It was long, thick and the head was fat and blood rushed- and the whole length was flushed dark red and was painfully hard.

 

“Suck it.”

 

Instantly, Patrick moved forwards, running pale fingertips along the underside of the shaft, before pressing at the slit at the head. A pale hand moved up to wrap around the shaft, jerking it softly, as he began to mouth over the head, before- Pete grabbed Patrick’s hair and yanking his head to the side roughly. He glared down into the blown, blue eyes. “I _said_ _suck it_.”

 

Patrick was pretty sure that being held by the hair like a fucking _dog_ , or something was supposed to be infuriating- he was pretty sure he should have stood up, punched this asshole in the face and marched out with his pride- _somewhat_ intact. But instead, Patrick opened his mouth and flattened his tongue as he took in half of Pete’s cock, mouth struggling and straining around the thick length. Patrick moaned and cracked an eye open with a flutter, staring up at Pete. The older man only cursed drunkenly, mind buzzed and dazed as he pushed Patrick’s head further down, ignoring the younger man’s gagging.

“Jus’ fuckin’ - jus’-Ah, oh f-fuck-” He groaned as his cock hit the back of Patrick’s throat, and the redhead could only breathe out shakily through his nose, before opening his eyes- wide and innocent with a cock shoved down his throat, successfully driving Pete Wentz insane.

 

Pete Wentz eh?

 

Holy fuck.

 

He was blowing Pete Wentz in a bathroom right now.

 

Literally anyone could walk in, literally anyone could took take a picture and then sell it to the media for millions. Oh fuck, Drunk Patrick was never allowed to take the reigns again- the immature, reckless piece of shit.

 

Pete suddenly thrusted, and Patrick had to stop himself from coughing- god, Pete was going to choke him to death with his cock- Not a great story at the funeral.

Patrick decided to just focus on not choking to death, gagging, or throwing up all over Pete’s cock- but the alcohol in his system was only making that harder.

 

Sober Patrick made a note to beat the _everliving shit_ out of Brendon later.

 

Patrick braced his hands on Pete’s hips, hoping to calm the desperate rutting, before sucking, and lapping at every vein on Pete’s cock, while watching the soccer player dissolving into a moaning mess above him. The wide blue eyes flicked up to the lidded brown ones- and fuck, oh god, why was turned-on Pete even hotter than his usual self? He was just getting set up to fail at this point.

 

Patrick’s eyes stayed wide, as he began suckling audibly, swirling his tongue around the head. Pete cried out, hips bucking forwards- making Patrick stifle a choked cough, and the older man reached down to grab Patrick’s head, rutting into his mouth.

Oh god, Patrick could feel Pete getting close- the eyes, lidded and blown, the mouth parted in heavy groans and pants, the darkened blush shining through his skin, the desperately moving hips- it was too much, Pete was gonna come, real fuckin’ soon. Sober Patrick pleaded with Drunk Patrick to pull away, swallowing would only destroy any sense of self-respect he had left...but once again, Drunk Patrick was a horny little bastard, and kept his mouth latched on.

Patrick started moaning, letting Pete fuck his mouth, while pawing at his own cock through his jeans- and then he felt Pete twitch in his mouth as he heard a long, deep, stuttered groan. Patrick flinched a little as sudden hot ribbons coated the back of his throat and filled his mouth. He gulped, trying to swallow everything, and Sober Patrick was fucking livid, Jesus Christ- if Pete fucking remembered this, Patrick would never live it down.

Patrick pulled away, looking up at Pete- the once, proud, smug, arrogant soccer player had been reduced to a panting, shuddering and blushing mess, trembling with aftershocks.

Suddenly, Patrick stumbled to his feet as he was dragged up by his shirt collar, a tanned hand fisted into the fabric.

Pete’s gaze was intoxicated but determined and serious, and he leaned forwards, eyes twitching and chewing on his lip roughly. Patrick blinked quickly and gaped a little as Pete slurred his words.

“I’m not done with you.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

They stumbled into Pete’s hotel room, and shit, Patrick had only gotten _worse_. And by worse, he meant drunker...wait was ‘ _drunker_ ’ a word?

Well, whatever, whether the word existed or not- Patrick was a fucking mess. It turns out that ‘ _the alcohol turns into crystals and you get drunker_ ’ shit was true, it had to be, if it wasn’t Patrick would have sobered up a little by now- And if he had sobered up, he wouldn’t be kissing Pete right now.

 

Pete pressed Patrick against a wall, pulling lips apart in favour to stare into each other’s blown eyes, while they panted into each other’s mouths. Patrick flicked his tongue against Pete’s bottom lip, and the older man growled, slotting their lips together again, and groaning. Patrick idly wondered if he could still taste himself on Patrick’s tongue, and what would he think? Gross or hot? Pete groaned again, and Patrick assumed ‘hot’.

They pulled apart for a second, and Pete tugged Patrick towards him, vainly working to rid him of his shirt while kissing his neck- his intoxicated mind didn't understand the complex physics of getting someone's shirt off right now. Patrick leaned his cheek against the crown of Pete’s head as he made high-pitched moans at Pete's lips on his neck, while blue eyes flitted around the room.

 

It was fucking _huge_ , like- probably one of the biggest suites- Wait, no, this was more like _a fucking apartment_. There was literally a huge dining table, and the wall entire behind it was panelled glass- with a view of the city skyline, along with all the small, dots of bright lights. There was an actual kitchen too, and up the stairs-

 

Wait.

 

Stairs.

 

Fucking stairs.

 

Patrick whined in confusion, head tilting and making Pete chase the neck that had moved away, latching his mouth back in place with a deep, content groan. “Why’d you have fuckin’ stairs?” Patrick slurred, making Pete’s head shoot up and look behind him.

 

Seriously, fucking suspended, wooden stairs.

 

Patrick should have been a soccer player instead.

 

Pete shrugged, looking back at the redhead, “I think it’s ‘cause this is a...this is a...” He was struggling.

 

“... _Big room_ …?”

 

_Well then_ , Patrick was struggling too.

 

Pete grinned drunkenly, pulling Patrick towards him again, and stepping backwards, pulling the younger man with him towards the accursed stairs.

 

“Yeah, that. S’a big room.”

 

Patrick grinned back and giggled as Pete pressed him against the wall of the stairs, kissing him deeply, and slowly leading him upwards, both men edging sideways up the stairs, one step at a time.

They pulled away for a split second as Pete finally figured out how to tear off his shirt, throwing it back over the banister, and the action made Patrick hum disapprovingly as Pete kissed his neck again. “You’re gonna have to clean that up later, s’gonna suck.”

 

“ _You’re_ gonna suck.”

 

Pete collapsed into laughter against Patrick’s throat, and Patrick couldn’t help but splutter out a laugh too. “Geddit? Suck? ‘Cause you- you, cause you’re gonna...”

Yes, Patrick got the joke. It wasn’t terribly complex, or anything, but the older man pulled back, beaming and looking very proud of himself for his _outstanding_ , _award-winning_ joke.

“You should be a writer, like a- like a _joke_ writer. Fuckin’ gold right there.”

 

Patrick found comfort in the fact that he could still be sarcastic in the middle of foreplay with Pete Wentz.

 

Pete didn’t seem to pick up on the tone though, and only pulled Patrick’s shirt away, before grinning maliciously, and instantly moving to kiss and lap at the crook of his neck. Patrick moaned lowly; His neck was his no.1 weak spot- and, goddamn Pete for figuring it out so fast.

Pete’s teeth bit down on the sweet spot just in the middle of his neck, and Patrick whined desperately, hips bucking forwards. Pete growled lowly, and roughly pulled the man up the remaining few flights of stairs.

 

What the fuck- there were literally two floors. This was just unnecessary, fucking rich people-

 

 

“O-oh fuck-”

 

Pete’s right hand had slipped through the hem of Patrick's jeans, and was now in his boxers, jerking him slowly but roughly, with long strokes.

Patrick needed to take control of the situation. If he wanted any shred of dignity to remain after this- If he ever wanted to look Pete Wentz in the eyes _as an equal_ again-

 

He had to. He fucking had to.

 

Patrick shoved at Pete as roughly as he could. But, as had already been established- Patrick wasn’t a very strong guy, and the shove was actually pretty weak, only serving to make Pete giggle softly at Patrick’s pathetic attempt. The redhead tried to glare, but Patrick’s dazed mind translated it as a confused, furrowed stare.

Pete cocked his head and somehow understood what Patrick was trying to do, so he exhaled and raised his eyebrows- opting to let Patrick win this time.

The younger man shoved again, and this time, the soccer player toppled to the mattress, leaning up on his forearms.

With a proud, drunk grin, Patrick crawled onto Pete’s lap, straddling it while he dug his hands into the mattress beside Pete’s head- propping himself up.

 

Pete still had a smug grin on his face, and that pissed- both Drunk and Sober Patrick, off.

 

He was gonna have to step up his game.

 

 

“Said you like pain, ‘member?”

 

 

Pete looked confused for a second, before worried realization flashed through his eyes, and Patrick idly wondered if he’d lied about that just to tease Patrick with the whole ‘ _I get a boner from being poked at, sorry_ ’ thing.

Well, as a responsible adult should, Patrick was going to teach the man-child under him why lying was wrong- and what its consequences were.

  
Patrick pressed his face against Pete’s neck, licking a long, wet stripe along the length, before biting down as hard as he could- right over his vein. Patrick knew which spots of the human body hurt the most- and he also knew all the erogenous zones, so while he may not have had much... _field experience_...he could figure out what to do with the cold hard facts.

 

Ears- those were a good place to start. A lot of sensory receptors, a lot of nerve endings.

Patrick licked the shell slowly with a moan, and grinned as he heard Pete give a breathy whine beneath him. He bit down and dug his teeth into the helix, holding back another grin as he listened to Pete’s loud moans, and felt him bucking upwards roughly. Okay, maybe he hadn’t been lying about the pain thing after all.

Patrick pulled his teeth out, and grimacing a little at the deep, slightly bleeding indents. Shit he’d have to check those out tomorrow, if they got infected Patrick would have to Van Gogh this motherfucker.

 

Lips- those were pretty good too. Sensitive to touch, heat and pressure, and when stimulated, produce oxytocin- or the ‘ _love hormone_ ’, that was really more like the ‘ _please fuck me hormone_ '- if you asked Patrick.

As the alert side of his mind raced with information he’d read in textbooks all those years ago- he would have never have believed he would have ended up here.

Life’s a funny thing; You go to med-school, get married, have a baby- yet you always end up fucking a soccer player in Japan, _whoa_ , _crazy_.

Patrick flicked his tongue over Pete’s lower lip, not being able to stop himself grinning at the little, desperate sound from Pete. He dug his teeth in again, drinking in the groans, before lapping at the indents, and being pulled against Pete’s lips by a hand on the back of his head.

Their mouths slotted together again, and Patrick tilted his head, moaning as he felt Pete’s gripping hands on his neck and back. He was getting bothered, Patrick could feel it. Between the bucking hips, the erection straining against the fabrics of his boxers and jeans, the panting, the frantic breathing- Patrick was relieved he had taken control, he could still hold his head up high after this.

  
...Well, he was losing his conviction a little _right now_... _if he was being honest_...Pete was _too fucking talented_ with his mouth- and it wasn’t fair, okay?

This wasn’t a level playing field- Pete was a playboy, sex-god who had fucked just about every young, pretty, famous girl in the US, while Patrick was a divorced single father- who'd literally only had two sexual partners- _TOPS_ , in his entire life. And one of those had been his ex-wife. The other one had been a drunk mistake in the guy’s car. A drunk mistake- just like this one. Just like Pete.

 

Patrick wasn’t going to let this asshole win.

 

Neck- sensitive to low frequency vibrations, especially sensitive for those with low body fat.

Patrick grinned. Pete had 9% body fat. And that was _real fuckin’ low_.

  
He tore his lips away, ignoring Pete’s discontent protest, and he burrowed his face into Pete’s neck again- teeth tracing along a prominent vein. He bit down- hard. Pete gave a stuttered gasp from under him, and Patrick pressed his mouth to the indents and groaned deeply, smugly listening to Pete’s frantic, panting gasps against his ear.

 

“P-Patrick, ah- g-god, jus’- jus’- please, I-I-”

 

Patrick grinned against Pete’s neck, before leaning up, splaying his hands on the bare, inked chest. “What, Pete?”

 

The name always felt so _right_ to say, Patrick didn’t know why. He usually called Pete, ‘ _Wentz_ ’, or ‘ _asshole_ ’, but when he said his actual name, it just seemed to... _work_.

 

Pete said nothing, but his hands gripped Patrick’s soft thighs, fingers digging in roughly. Patrick felt a shiver run up his spine, shit- medical books would help him reduce fuckboy extraordinaire- _Pete Wentz_ , into a puddle of arousal- Who’d a thunk it?

 

Patrick grinned mischievously.

 

Pain.

 

Pain was an interesting thing.

 

...A lot of nerves...meant a lot of pain, and as Patrick felt Pete’s fingertips digging into his flesh, he paused for thought, tilting his head.

 

Fingertips were painful. Really fucking painful- packed with huge nerve endings.

 

With a smirk, Patrick tugged up Pete’s left hand, holding it firmly by the wrist. Pete stared at him with a confused, drunk puppy-dog look, and Drunk Patrick couldn’t hold back a giggle...While Sober Patrick was planning his attack.

The smile faded and Patrick took Pete’s index finger into his mouth, suckling it and swirling his tongue around the tip. He smiled around the digit when he heard Pete’s whining groan, and felt his hips rutting shallowly and weakly. Nerve endings also meant pleasure, when stimulated in the right way. But Patrick wasn’t here for that, he was here for the pain- he was gonna teach this motherfucker a little lesson about TMI to someone you just met.

 

Patrick cocked his head, mewling around the finger and grazing the pad between his teeth. Pete was biting his lip, his other hand was bruising in Patrick’s thigh and his mouth was parted in groans.

The baby-blues flicked up to the whiskey-browns, and Patrick bit down.

Pete cried out, somewhere between arousal and agony.

Patrick rolled his hips, sucking Pete's middle finger into his mouth, before biting the pad again, all while smugly smiling around the digits. Soon enough, Patrick’s swollen lips was stretched around four of Pete’s fingers, biting at pads, lapping between the webbing, and mewling softly, sending vibrations all along the nerves in Pete’s body.

 

Being a doctor really paid off in these situations.

 

Pete’s mouth- that had been parted in loud groans, begs and pleads, suddenly growled, contorting into a snarl.

 

Oh shit.

 

Pete flipped them over, caging Patrick with his arms, and pulling their hips flush together, dragging Patrick closer by his thighs. He kissed Patrick, but it was different.

It was mad.

Patrick whined under the bruising force, and panted as Pete bit his neck, before moving up to tower above the younger man.

With no finesse, he shoved down Patrick’s jeans, tugging boxers and socks with it to the floor. Shit, Patrick had to do something, Pete was really fucking mad and Patrick was gonna be in for a pounding if he didn’t-

 

“AH- OH F-FUCK-”

 

Patrick kicked his legs out, back arching off the mattress in pain. He panted desperately, trying to kick at Pete’s thigh to get him off, but the older man was stronger- infinitely stronger, and he only leaned into the mattress on his right hand, with his other hand burying it’s digits inside Patrick.

Three fingers at once, _Jesus_ , Patrick shouldn’t have teased him. Pete had neglected to use lube too, so the only thing keeping the pain from being _unbearable_ was Patrick’s own saliva coating Pete’s fingers.

He pushed them in further, going deeper and squirming them inside of Patrick. The younger man whimpered, Christ he really shouldn’t have-

 

 

“OH, F-FUCK- f- fuck, oh- _ah_ \- P-Pete-”

 

 

Pete grinned. Patrick knew he’d found it, that insufferable smug beam on his face was indication enough.

His fingers languidly stroked Patrick’s prostate, and he grinned as he watched the younger man cry out, writhe and contort beneath him. Shit Patrick felt that crazy possessed girl in the Exorcist; His back arched, his legs bent, his arms trembled- he was moving in ways he was pretty sure it wasn’t physically possible for a human to move in.

Patrick bit his lip as Pete’s mouth moved down to his ear, biting down on the helix. Shit he’d learnt. Patrick could feel Pete’s annoying grin, and the older man whispered slow, deep words into his ear.

 

“Y’shouldn’t have done that, y’little _slut_.”

 

A high moan escaped Patrick at the words, and more followed as Pete kissed and bit his neck.

 

What the actual fuck was going on?

 

Why did that turn Patrick on even more?

 

Being called a ‘slut’ is fucking _insulting_ , it’s not _hot_ \- fuck...Oh for fuck’s sake, fine- It was. It really fucking was.

 

Patrick was learning a lot about himself tonight. This had turned out to be quite an illuminating venture.

 

The fingers moved away, and Patrick whined softly, before-

 

“AH, M-MOTHERFUCKER-”

 

His yell was muffled by Pete’s lips, deep, passionate and sloppy.

 

Patrick’s dick was confused.

 

On one hand, he was pretty sure Pete had just shoved his whole cock inside of him- giving him literally no time to prepare himself- and it had really fucking hurt.

On the other hand, Pete’s mouth was fucking amazing, and combined with that shit Brendon had shoved down his throat earlier- Patrick felt dazed in the best way.

 

Then Pete thrust forwards, and all the pain snapped back. Patrick made loud noises of protest under Pete’s lips before shoving him away. “That fuckin’ hurt- fuckin’ mother-”

Patrick shoved Pete down into the mattress. Yes, it had hurt. Yes, Pete was an asshole who hadn’t given him any time to adjust. Yes, Patrick probably should have gotten dressed and left, leaving Pete to deal with his boner alone. But goddamnit, Patrick was horny, and right now, he didn’t give a fuck.

Patrick clumsily grabbed at the base of Pete’s cock, wrapping his hand around it and posing it at his entrance. Patrick exhaled shakily, his free hand moving to splay over Pete’s chest, leaning forwards to support himself. He chewed his lip as he slowly- giving himself all the time he needed ( _thanks a lot Pete_ ) as he pushed himself down onto Pete’s length, before their hips touched again.

Patrick twitched with heavy panting for a few moments, before he blinked his eyes open to see Pete’s dazed-drunk, yet extremely aroused, expression. His lip was caught between his teeth, and his eyes were firmly locked, intently watching where their bodies joined.

With one last shudder, Patrick pulled himself up slowly, both hands on Pete’s chest now, nails digging into the skin. He rose until Pete was almost out, before lowering himself again with a groan, watching Pete’s head thud back into the comforter through lidded eyes.

 

Soon enough, the pain had subsided, and Patrick had sped up. Pete gripped his hips now, nails digging into the pale skin and constant groans escaped him. Patrick could feel Pete’s cock twitching inside of him, and he grinned slyly with drooping eyelids.

Patrick pressed his hands flat against Pete’s chest, and pulled himself up roughly, before slamming back down. They both moaned and shuddered, while two pairs of eyes rolled back into their own skulls. “That’s it baby, jus’ like that.” Pete groaned lowly, grabbing at his hips and Patrick mewled at his words, tossing his head to the side, and watching the older man below him.

Pete had started thrusting up, it was shallow, but it was hitting Patrick in _just the right way_ \- and he was having a hard time staying focused on his mission.

 

He wasn’t gonna let Pete win. Not yet, anyway.

 

Patrick started bouncing on Pete’s cock, leaning forwards on his hands and half-smiling down at Pete drunkenly, while his skin burst into goosebumps, and he shuddered with every bounce. “C’mon baby, so good- fuck-”

Pete was losing it, Patrick could tell- he had to bring him to the edge, just a little more. Pete’s grip on Patrick’s hips hardened in an effort to speed him up, moaning and pleading for a release, and then-

 

Patrick stopped.

 

“What the f-fuck?” Pete’s face was covered in shock and betrayal, as Patrick only grinned, pinning the tanned arms down above his head. He lifted his hips one last time, and bowed his head, watching Pete’s rock-hard, twitching, and dark red cock slip out of him between the tunnel of his legs. Patrick’s grin broadened, and he moved his face down to kiss Pete’s neck. “P-Patrick, I-I don’t-”

Patrick wasn’t evil or anything, he just wanted to make Pete work for it. He wasn’t normally like this but between whatever that powder was and whatever those shots were- Patrick felt confident as fuck.

He was in control for once, he had control over Pete for the first time. Real control. Not suggestions, or advice, but full on-

 

 

 

“Patrick.”

 

 

 

Oh fuck.

 

 

Patrick knew that tone.

 

 

He knew that tone from Pete’s worst interviews, from his worst encounters with the paparazzi, from his fights.

 

 

Pete was angry.

 

 

Oh shit-

 

Patrick yelped in pain as he was flipped and shoved down- shit Pete was so much stronger than he was, he couldn't believe he’d thought that he could have-

“Fuckin’ slut.” Pete growled, and he flipped Patrick over, shoving him face down into the soft mattress.

 

What the fuck- they even got the best _beds?_ Patrick’s bed wasn’t this fucking soft, this was discrimination-

 

 

“AH- F-FUCK, P-PETE, A-AH-”

 

And Pete was back inside of him, with one, hard thrust.

Patrick felt a hand push down on the back of his neck, and then he felt Pete almost pull out, before-

 

“OH G-GOD, f-FUCK-”

 

Pete thrust back in violently, with a vengeance. Patrick heard him growl like a feral animal above him, and the redhead whimpered, hands fisting into the comforter at either side of his head.

God it hurt- but fuck- oh, fuck it was so good. Pete’s mouth moved to Patrick’s ear, hips still snapping forwards with the sound of skin slapping against skin filling the room and bouncing off the walls. “S’what you get for be’in a slut.” Patrick cried out against the mattress, Jesus, why did talk like that do this to him? Wasn’t he allowed to keep at least one, tattered shred of dignity?

Pete leaned up again, hands either side of Patrick’s head as his hips kept rolling forwards, deep, hard and slow.

Oh fuck, it was unbearable, it was so fucking slow Patrick wanted to blow his brains out- fuck, he was desperate. Patrick rutted his hips against the mattress, groaning as his painfully-hard cock finally found some friction. He buried his face, nuzzling into the fabric as his hips moved shallowly. Oh god, he was so close, so fucking close, almost, almost-

 

“FUCK PLEASE, P-PLEASE, I’M BEGging you...”

 

Patrick’s yell ended in a whimpering sob. Pete had lifted his pale hips from the mattress, leaving him frictionless, and rutting into thin air.

“What d’you want baby?” Pete’s slurring, wet mouth was pressed against his ear, making Patrick shudder and sob. “P-please, P-Pete, I-I n-need, p-please-”

“What d’you need?”

Patrick sobbed in frustration against the mattress, hips jerking furiously and cock twitching against thin air. “YOU, I-I NEED- F-FUCKING- YOu, y-you p-please, ah- f-fuck- p-please-”

Patrick whined as he heard Pete’s low chuckle in his ear, before the heat moved away from his back. Pete almost pulled out again, before shoving back in, all with a frantic pace. Pete’s hips snapped forwards, quick, hard and sharp, again and again and again- and Patrick _screamed_ , collapsing into incoherent babbling and sobs, as his red face pressed against the mattress. Tears ran from his eyes and his mouth hung open, loud and drooling all over the mattress.

 

Another violent thrust, another desperate scream from Patrick. “D'you like that?” Pete’s voice was less angry now, and his thrusts were growing slow and hard again. Patrick only sobbed, nodding furiously as no words came. Jesus Christ, he did. All his inhibitions were gone- but somewhere in the blurred, back of his mind, Sober Patrick knew that he would never be able to look Pete in the eye again.

 

“‘Course y’do, you’re a little slut, aren’t you?” Patrick sobbed again, hands twisting in the comforter, and hips pushing back against Pete’s cock.

Soon enough, Pete’s pace had become furious, hard, fast and it was starting to get uneven. They were both close- Patrick’s eyes were rolling and he was panting breathlessly, while occasional desperate sob escaped him, each one getting louder and louder as Pete started hitting the perfect angle, jabbing into his prostate with every rough thrust. Jesus, it felt so good- this was actually gonna happen- he was so close- this had already been happening for hours- almost, so fucking close- they could never- he was on the edge- never gonna look at him the same way- oh, god Pete-

 

Patrick screamed into the mattress; Everything tensed and released at the same time, his hips convulsed forwards, thrusting frantically into thin air and making sounds between screams and whimpers as he came in thick ropes over the bed. Pete groaned and pressed his chest to Patrick’s back, hips pressing down, and cock pushing into Patrick’s abused prostate. The younger man sobbed again, he was totally spent, and as he felt Pete push himself up and thrust again, all he could do was moan.

Patrick ached and trembled with aftershocks, everything was so sensitive that every thrust from Pete felt like biting down on metal foil. Patrick tensed around Pete suddenly as another sob wracked his whole body, as one last bead of come escaped him.

Pete didn’t last long after that.

The soccer player’s hips stuttered, thrusts getting shallow and uneven, before making a low, deep noise, somewhere between a groan and a gasp. Patrick felt something warm filling him, and then he felt Pete’s chest against his back once more. Pete was leaning up on his forearms, which dug into the mattress either side of Patrick. The soccer player shuddered and exhaled, before leaning his forehead between Patrick’s shoulder blades, growing soft inside Patrick.

 

A while later, Pete moved away, flopping down on one side of the bed and shifting the comforter from under him with a grunt, before burying himself in the- once again, ridiculously soft and comfy comforter- goddamnit Patrick _really_ should have been a soccer player.

 

The younger man shuddered for a second, and quickly burrowed under the comforter in a similar way, face softening with a content, drunken smile.

He felt arms wrap around him, one bicep under his head, and one arm over his waist. Patrick tilted his head back a little to see Pete; Chest pressed against his back, muscled, athletic legs tangled with soft, pale, creamy ones. Patrick rested his head on Pete’s arm, smiling and breathing in the scent clinging to Pete’s skin: There was sex, alcohol, drugs- there was definitely weed, and Patrick’s sober side recognized it as the ‘MK Ultra’ strain, a trifecta that-

 

Patrick begged his doctor brain just to shut the fuck up and enjoy the moment.

 

Under the heady smells of debauchery, Patrick smelt sweat, coffee and caramel- which he thought was very apt, considering Pete’s skintone.

He smiled at the thought of drifting away in Pete’s arms, but in reality he didn’t really... _drift_...as such. Patrick dropped asleep from exhaustion in a split second, head lolling against Pete’s arm as his whole body relaxed in an instant.

 

The last thing on his mind- _before it had all gone black, of course_ \- was a firm, scolding voice, that wasn’t really his own, but rang from his own brain. The words echoed in his skull.

 

 

 

 

‘ _That was a big mistake.’_

 

 

 


	7. 'Cause I Am The Best You’ll Never Have (Again)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are some memes, I'm v sorry

 

This pillow was really uncomfortable.

 

Seriously, it was like a rock. Why did the hotel think pillows like this were okay?

 

He was gonna complain, fuck it.

 

Patrick rolled away from the offending pillow and buried his face in the mattress instead.

 

Jesus, it was soft.

 

Really soft, like way softer than-

 

Softer than _his_ mattress was- _in his room_.

 

Patrick leaned up on his forearm while rubbing his eyes and yawning. He sighed and opened his eyes to see-

 

Tokyo’s skyline.

 

And stairs. And an entire wall of glass- what the actual fuck?

 

Patrick moved to get up, putting his feet on the floor and trying to stand, before he yelped in pain and fell back onto the bed with a thud. Fuck it hurt. Everything hurt. Patrick looked down and-

 

He was naked.

 

Totally fucking naked.

 

Patrick was breathing heavily, what the fuck happened-

 

Pete.

 

Oh fuck- god, _please_ \- no, _please_.

 

Patrick slowly turned his head and-

 

Pete.

 

Sleeping face up, head turned, and face smushed into a pillow.

 

Pete had been the rock-like pillow- _oh fuck_.

 

Oh god he'd hoped that last nights...events, had just been a very vivid wet dream.

 

No. No this wasn’t happening. This couldn't be happening. There was no fucking way. Nothing on this planet could have gotten him drunk enough, o-or _high_ enough to-

 

This was just a bad dream- a nightmare, o-or a nightTERROR. It was totally fine, everything was gonna be fine, it's just a wet dream-

 

Oh fuck why wasn't he waking up then?

 

Oh god his thighs were sticky, why were his thighs sticky?

 

Patrick doubled over, burying his hands in his face. For fuck’s sake, he was gonna beat the shit out of Brendon- and he was gonna hunt down _that waitress_ too.

 

 

“Morning.”

 

 

Everything inside of Patrick convulsed. He felt sick, he felt like he was gonna throw up. He felt something touch his back and he flinched, moving away.

 

“What’s wrong with you?”

 

What’s wrong with _him?_

 

Oh honey- motherfucker, you’ve got a storm coming.

 

Patrick turned, staring at Pete with wide, feral eyes. He wanted to look scary. More than anything. He wanted to make this asshole terrified, but, to his rage and fury- Pete only laughed softly, burying the side of his face into his pillow and staring up at Patrick with a half-smile, and tired, soft eyes.

 

He wanted to yell.

He wanted to punch Pete in the face.

He wanted to punch him again.

He didn’t want to stop punching him.

He wanted that face to break under his fist.

He wanted to hear every bone, every cartilage- crack.

He wanted to watch it all turn to mush under his knuckles.

 

 

But Patrick started crying.

 

 

Oh for fuck’s sake.

 

His back shuddered, and he doubled over again, burying his face in his hands, while trying to keep his tears hidden.

Why was he so emotional? This wasn’t fucking fair.

He tried to stop, he really did, but he could only growl in frustration as the tears, sobs and gasps came louder and faster.

Testosterone was supposed to make crying easy to stop. Should he check his levels or something?- ‘Cause he couldn’t fucking stop right now.

 

He felt a gentle hand on his back and everything inside him exploded. All the rage, all the shame, the misery, the regret- He jerked his shoulders away and turned to glower at Pete again. The older man looked more confused now, and he was totally unaware of the fire burning inside of the soft, squishy 5'4 man.

 

 

 

“Don’t. Touch. Me.”

 

 

 

Patrick snarled. And he was so happy he did, he had at least retained some dignity-

 

Memories, images, flashbacks- oh god he’d been so submissive, he’d never live it down. All his pride, all his self-respect, all his dignity- all gone, like ashes in the wind.

 

Pete only laughed, leaning up on his arm and putting his face in the crook of Patrick's neck, grinning up while his hand caressed Patrick's other, bare, pale shoulder. “What? C’mon, what’s wrong?”

 

What’s wrong?

 

Do you not see what the situation is, you actual bitch?

 

“W-We, w-we-” Patrick shuddered, he couldn’t even bring himself to say it. It was like- if he said it, then he was confirming it had happened.

  
A kiss was pressed to the crook of his neck, and it made his stomach turn.

 

“-Had sex. Yeah.”

 

Patrick pressed a hand to his mouth and he shuddered again. Fuck, they’d been making so much progress- they'd had that bonding talk on the plane, they'd been able to deal with each other, they'd even started becoming... _acquaintances_ \- and now, everything was ruined again, back to square one. Or more like, back to square negative 10000.

 

“So,” He heard Pete shift behind him, leaning up to kiss his neck softly, eyes staring up at Patrick. Pete grinned and his eyes were full of mirth. “What’s the problem? Was it _that_ bad?”

 

Patrick gagged. Actually gagged. He buried his face in his hands, gripping at his hair and pulling it in frustration- just like kids do when they don’t know what to say.

Well, Patrick didn’t know what to say either.

 

No. No, he needed an excuse. He needed to make Pete understand that this would never happen again. Not as long as they lived.

 

“I-I was drunk.”

 

“So was I.”

 

Patrick pulled his hands away, and moved to look at Pete, but-

 

His eye was caught by something.

 

Red powder.

 

Red powder on his hands.

 

Patrick swiped at his face- Red powder.

 

Patrick looked back at Pete. Blue powder.

 

Blue powder on his nose,

 

He shuddered when he saw specks of red on Pete’s neck, mouth, chest and hands. He whined in frustration when he looked down at his own legs, his stomach, and saw smatterings of royal blue, bright against pale white skin.

 

It had happened.

 

He remembered everything.

 

Oh god he remembered everything.

 

 

“W-Was I drugged?”

 

 

There was a silence, and Patrick could feel tears prickling his eyes. He turned to glare at Pete, a furious scowl snapping onto his features. “WAS. I. DRUGGED?”

 

Pete looked confused, and a little insulted. He sat up, leaning on his arm and rubbing his other hand over Patrick's back. He shrugged and shook his head. “I dunno-”

 

“YES. YOU DO.”

 

Pete furrowed his brow, now looking _profoundly_ insulted. “What do you think _I_ did it?- You- what do _take me for?_ A rapist?” He raised his eyebrows at Patrick’s glare, before sighing heavily and shrugging. “I don’t know. But, if it’s any consolation, I think I was too.”

 

Patrick covered his eyes with his trembling hands, oh god, oh god- Shit. Meagan. Pete’s family- Oh fuck he’d cheated on Meagan.

 

“You cheated-” Patrick’s own, sudden words were cut off by his own shudder. “Y-You cheated on-”

 

“Shit.”

 

He heard a groan from behind him, and Patrick turned to see Pete with his hands pressed to his face, forearms resting on his comforter-covered knees. They stayed like that for a while, Patrick didn’t know what to say, and he was pretty sure Pete was thinking about how to confess that he'd cheated to-

 

 

“She doesn’t have to know.”

 

 

Everything inside Patrick froze again, and by its own accord his face contorted into shocked disgust. He was breathing heavily- fuck he was mad. Being cheated on- sucked. He knew, from real, personal experience- and y'know what was worse? Not being told. Being walked out on without an explanation, or being deceived for the rest of your fucking life. He felt Pete's face in his neck again, kissing softly with gentle sounds, hand snaking around a pale hip.

Patrick was grateful that Elisa had found the courage to leave him, rather than just fuck someone else behind his back as they grew old together.

He was glad she’d found that bravery- and Patrick was furious that Pete hadn’t. And had no intention to.

 

“Yes. She does.”

 

Patrick watched Pete look up, and his face droped instantly. The older man shook his head softly. “N-no. She doesn’t.”

 

Patrick felt his blood boiling, he felt rage clawing up his chest and throat- scrambling to escape. “You really are an asshole aren’t you?”

 

Pete’s face twisted into shock. “Excuse me-?”

 

“You don’t know what it’s like-”

 

“Patrick-”

 

“You don’t know what it’s like to get cheated on, to be fucking _betrayed_ , to- to- oh for _fuck’s sake_ , she’s _already_ depressed, and you-”

 

“What she doesn’t know,”

 

Pete’s hand was on his shoulder again, it was gentle, it stung where it touched Patrick’s skin. There was a kiss on his skin. The sound of Pete's lips against his skin rung like thundering, grating fire alarms in Patrick's ears.

 

“-won’t hurt her.”

 

Patrick exhaled shakily. “Don’t touch me.”

 

“Patrick, you’re being ridiculous-”

 

“Don’t fucking touch me.”

 

Patrick jerked his shoulders, shaking the man away, as he leaned down, grabbing any of his clothes he could reach, and ignoring the pain in his backside as he pulled his boxers and jeans on- ignoring Pete’s protests ringing in his ears. Patrick stumbled to his feet, snatched his shirt from the ground and tugged it over his head. He heard noises behind him, but everything was blurry, and buzzing. He couldn't care about it right now. He just had to get out.

Patrick soldiered down the stairs, face set in stone, as his footsteps dropped against every step. He heard hurried steps behind him but he ignored it.

“Patrick, wait- just- c’mon-” Pete’s hand was on his shoulder again, trying to turn the younger man to face him. Patrick turned, but shoved the hand away with a step backwards, avoiding Pete's searching eyes.

 

“What fucking part of ‘ _don’t fucking touch me_ ’ did you not understand?”

 

Pete sighed, raising his eyebrows disapprovingly as his eyes burned into Patrick’s. Pete had at least had the dignity to tug his boxers on before running after the redhead, and Patrick was thankful for that. ‘Cause he was pretty sure seeing Pete’s dick right now would make him throw up, projectile, everywhere. He felt awful. He could see the top of the mystery tattoo poking out from the hem over the fabric, and he mentally scolded himself for not paying attention last night. He still didn’t fucking know what it was, and while he never wanted to find out again- he was _still_ curious.

 

“What? What the fuck do you want, Wentz?”

 

“Oh, we're back to ‘Wentz’ now?”

 

“-Yes we are-”

 

“Really? ‘Cause you weren’t calling me ‘ _Wentz_ ’ last night-”

 

“-I’m warning you-”

 

“And you like being called ‘ _slut_ ’, _I knew_ a little _bitch_ like you would love-”

 

Patrick’s fist landed in Pete’s face with a thundering crack.

 

Pete cried out furiously, pressing his hands to his face, and Patrick could feel his pulse thundering in his knuckles.

Patrick strode over to the door, and hastily shoved his way through, hearing frantic, fearsome shouts of his name- that sounded more like war cries, behind him. Shit, Pete was angry. Pete was gonna chase him- oh fuck- Patrick started running. He knew he wasn’t as fast, b-but- but maybe with a head start- m-maybe-

 

Patrick stumbled, skidding to a stop in the lobby and in the process, earning an odd look from the receptionist. Patrick avoided her eyes and walked over to the stairs on the other side of the room.

The hotel was divided into two sides: the ‘ _I’m rich, and I need two fucking floors for some reason_ ’ side, and the ‘ _I’d just like a nice room to sleep in please_ ’ side- Patrick being in the latter side, and Pete- _obviously_ , being in the former.

 

Patrick managed to get back to his room without having a mental breakdown in the middle of the hall- so that was good, at least.

He needed a shower. He had to get the smell of sex off of his body. He needed to get Pete’s scent off of his skin.

Patrick tore his clothes off, and he was pretty certain he was gonna burn them after this. A nice bonfire in the backyard. He and Declan could roast marshmallows. Aw- they could make smores while they burnt away Patrick's regrets!

 

Burn your regrets, and roast marshmallows over the flames.

 

That was a great saying, Patrick was definitely gonna use that one instead of- ' _When life gives you lemons..._ '.

 

He pushed into the shower, hitting the button with his fist and cursing as ice cold water poured over him. Shivering, he managed to turn the heat up, and soon enough, he was stood in a warm shower, looking at the ground with a hunched back as the water rained over him.

He stared down at his trembling hand; The knuckles were red, and grazed, and he was certain they’d go purple soon enough.

Patrick was sore, everything hurt, so although looking at his body pained him right now, he carefully examined himself- trying to find the causes.

There were dark, black bruises in the shape of fingerprints all over him. His thighs, his hips, his back, his neck, his arms- you name it.

He grimaced, he hoped they’d fade quickly, he really didn’t want a reminder of Pete- of this... _situation_.

Patrick leaned his forehead on the wall, letting himself breathe deeply for the first time that morning. Oh god he felt like shit, why the fuck- what the fuck-

 

 

“PATRICK.”

 

 

Patrick’s eyes snapped open, and he turned to stare at the bathroom door.

 

More knocking.

 

“PATRICK, LET ME IN.”

 

It was the room door.

 

Patrick shut off the water and drying himself with a towel. Patrick was going to get dressed- Pete could fucking wait.

He hastily dressed himself in the closest clothes he could find, which turned out to be his pyjamas- a Star Wars shirt and Batman sweatpants, not very intimidating for a confrontation with the furious, very strong and seriously mad athlete at his door.

 

Patrick gingerly stepped over to the door, and he pressed an ear against it, hearing furious breathing from the other side.

 

“I KNOW YOU’RE THERE, I CAN FUCKING HEAR YOU, OPEN THE DOOR.”

 

Patrick gulped, furrowing his brow and exhaling, he straightened his spine and tilted his head up. He wasn’t going to let Pete intimidate him, they were equals, they were-

 

“PATRICK OPEN _THE_ _FUCKING DOOR_.”

 

-Oh fuck angry Pete was terrifying.

 

“J-Just leave me alone!”

 

Oh god that was pathetic. _Patrick, step up_. _WorldStar_.

 

“OPEN UP.”

 

Patrick crooked the door open, holding it firmly as he peered out from a thin gap.

Well, give Pete an inch, and he took a mile- He shoved the door back, shoving Patrick backwards into the room with a slight stumble. Pete was dressed, thank god- albeit roughly and it looked as though he’d practically _thrown on_ last night’s clothes.

 

“ _WHAT_ THE ACTUAL _FUCK_ -”

 

“-I have nothing to say to you.”

 

Patrick’s voice was a hiss, low and quiet- but all his rage and shame showed up perfectly through his transparent expression.

Pete stared, eyes wide in disbelief and posture hunched with rage, his fists were clenched, his knuckles were milky white against his darker skin.

Patrick was safe, for now.

If he suddenly got friendly, Patrick would have to make a run for it- batman sweatpants and all.

 

Patrick’s gaze moved back to his face, and he grimaced slightly. Patrick had a good right hook, despite not being very strong; Pete’s nose was bruised, and it was bleeding. His top lip was a little torn and his dark, bruised jaw was clenched with rage as he panted heavily- eyes burning into Patrick.

 

“Patrick. I want _an explanation_ -”

 

“-You are such an asshole- Really. I-I don’t know what I expected...”

 

Patrick was crying again, hot tears trailed down his cheeks, and he angrily swiped them away. Fuck he was furious, why did his body not understand that?

_Yelling_ not _crying_ , please.

 

Pete scoffed, head shaking lightly.

 

“I’m the asshole? Who punched who again-?”

 

“YOU ARE _SUCH_ AN ASSHOLE. I DON’T GIVE A FUCK-”

 

“NO, _YOU'RE THE ASSHOLE_. MOTHERFUCKER _THAT HURT_ , I DIDN’T EVEN DO ANYTHING-”

 

“ _YOU DIDN’T EVEN FUCKING DO ANYTHING?_ ARE YOU KIDDING ME?-”

 

“WHAT- WHAT DID I EVEN FUCKING DO-?”

 

“YOU’RE GONNA LIE TO MEAGAN YOU DISGUSTING PIECE OF-”

 

“WELL I’M NOT GONNA FUCKING TELL HER, ARE YOU INSANE-”

 

“D’YOU KNOW HOW MUCH IT _HURTS?!_ ”

 

Patrick was sobbing now, he couldn’t help it, getting yelled at always did this to him.

 

“NO, NO YOU DON’T, ‘CAUSE YOU’RE THE KIND OF ASSHOLE WHO _**DOES**_ THE CHEATING, NOT THE ONE WHO _GETS_ CHEATED ON.”

 

Pete’s eyes were wide in fury, but Patrick saw a glint of- of something... _sadder_...something that made his heart hurt.

 

“I GOT CHEATED ON,” Patrick’s sobs only got more violent, “I GOT CHEATED ON AND IT HURT. IT FUCKING HURT. IT FUCKING DESTROYED ME- I-I- I NEVER- I NEVER WANTED TO BE-”

Patrick’s breathing was erratic, and without warning he was pulled into a warm chest. He couldn’t even fight back.

 

“I didn’t- I never- I didn’t w-want to be the o-other- I-I-” He was sobbing now, into... _Pete’s_... _chest_...oh _fuck_ no.

 

Patrick shoved him back, hard, angry and fast. “DON’T TOUCH ME- DON’T YOU EVER FUCKING TOUCH ME AGAIN-”

 

“GET FUCKED, I’M JUST TRYING-”

 

“WHAT- WHAT ARE YOU TRYING TO DO? I DON’T KNOW WHAT YOU FUCKING WANT FROM ME-”

 

Pete’s mouth was twisted into a snarl, but then- he relaxed.

 

His whole posture, his fists fell open into hands, his head lowered.

 

 

Patrick was too mad to even notice.

 

 

“Patrick, listen to me...” Pete’s eyes were soft and wide, and he felt calm, inviting, warm...Patrick subconsciously leaned forwards when-

 

A hard fist shot into his face, landing with a thud.

 

 

“A-AH YOU M-MOTher-”

  
Patrick collapsed with a yelp, screaming into his hands in agony and feeling blood pouring from his nose. He could feel his pulse there, it all ached, it all felt hot, it all felt itchy- all he could hear was his heartbeat.

Then all the ambiance, all the static, all the beating- everything in his ears cleared, and he heard a door slam.

 

Patrick knew he should have gotten up. He should have gone to check his face. He should have chased Pete down and fought him- like a man.

 

But he didn’t.

 

He curled up on the floor, bleeding face pressed into his hands and entire body wracking with pained, frustrated sobs.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“Patrick.”

 

Patrick tightened the tourniquet, receiving a grunt in response. The voice was strained as it spoke up again, “Patrick, please.”

He jabbed the bevel in carelessly and suddenly, hoping it would hurt- just like _getting his fucking **face** fractured _ had _._

 

Pete’s eyes were wide and pleading. He’d been trying to appeal to the doctor for the whole week since they'd arrived home, but Patrick had only given him a hard, cold shoulder in response- the whole time.

 

They’d been back in the US for a week, and the instant they’d landed, Patrick had drove to Pete’s house, he’d retrieved his son, and had left for home without a word.

Declan had had a great time at Pete’s house, he and Saint had been fantastic company for each other- and Meagan hadn’t been too... _bitchy_. Well, Declan didn’t say 'bitchy', _Patrick did_.

 

 

Work had been hard.

He was still Pete’s doctor, he was still a LA Galaxy doctor, he was still one of the US team’s doctors- and that job had only gotten harder since Clements had been fired for over-prescribing drugs to players, and for gross neglect to his charges.

 

Oh yeah, and it turns out that colored powder- that had been _cocaine_. Patrick had done cocaine. And yes, he had been horrified. And furious. He’d wanted to find that waitress and make her pay.

 

...But he hadn’t, he’d just accepted it, and had just kept drinking water until the drug had left his system.

 

 

“Patrick, please, just talk to me.”

 

 

Pete hadn’t left him alone. He’d been insistent, and annoying, and determined to get words out of the redhead. Patrick was fed up.

 

“I have nothing to say to you.”

 

Pete’s face was contorted between joy that Patrick had spoke, but rage at what Patrick had said. Pete exhaled heavily, Patrick could see his shoulders trembling from the corner of his eye. He remembered holding onto those shoulders as he- oh god, Patrick felt sick again.

Pete looked up, trying to chase Patrick’s gaze to get the redhead to look him in the eye.

 

“I don’t understand what I did-”

 

“No you really don’t.”

 

Patrick pressed a cotton ball to the pinprick, and Pete automatically held it there as the doctor’s hand moved away. Pete still had a bandaid over the bridge of his nose- so did Patrick. They matched. And every time Patrick saw _his_ , all he thought of _Pete_. He'd stopped looking in mirrors.

 

“Patrick-”

 

Patrick sighed. _Heavily_. He really didn’t understand Pete’s end goal here.

 

“I don’t know what you want from me Pete.”

 

“-I just, you-”

 

Pete looked thoughtful, but his eyes were glazed over blankly at the same time. “...You were _the_ _best_ I ever-”

 

Patrick retched, his toes curled and his back hunched, hands leaning into a counter. “Don’t. Don’t say it. Don’t remind-”

 

“I swear to god, you were the best, I _want_ _you_ -”

 

“Pete. I’m warning you.”

 

Pete’s eyes were full of something between lust, admiration and desperation, his shoulders were low and his head was up and tilted, looking at Patrick helplessly.

 

“...You were better than Meagan, and that _scares_ me-”

 

“I can’t do this anymore.”

 

Patrick dropped the stethoscope he was about to press to Pete’s back and he stalked out of the room, hearing Pete’s yells of ‘ _Patrick!_ ’ and ‘ _Stop!_ ’ behind him.

 

 

 

 

 

 

“I’m not going.”

 

The coordinator stared at him with a slack jaw. “...Are you... _joking_ , or-?”

 

“I’m _NOT_ going to Russia.”

 

The man scoffed, “W-Well, I’m afraid you’ll have to-”

 

“No, I really don’t.”

 

“If you want to keep your job, you _will_.”

 

Patrick froze. Was he getting threatened? This _piece of shit_ …

 

“Is that a threat?”

 

The man smirked, leaning back in his chair. “No, it’s a fact.”

 

“I don’t under-”

 

“The board of LA Galaxy, the board of the US team, and the American medical soccer board are all very familiar with each other.” The man tilted his head with a sarcastic smile. “If you refuse one, the others won’t be best pleased.” The man sighed dramatically, “And if you snub two, well- LA’s board isn’t going to be very happy with you.”

 

Patrick couldn’t speak, he was at a loss for words. Was he actually being threatened into being the US team’s doctor? What the fuck-?

 

“And, I’m afraid your good reputation will be ground into the dirt if you get fired for ‘ _gross negligence_ ’.” The man smiled again, noting something in his papers. “We need you; We’ve already lost Clements, Dahlman has serious family affairs- We are _not_ spoiled for choice when it comes to good doctors.”

 

He suddenly glanced back up at the stunned redhead, and quirked an eyebrow.

 

 

“You can go now Dr. Stumph. See you in Moscow.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“Hi Dad!”

Declan ran towards Patrick, quickly stopping himself by tugging on his dad’s arm. “Hey buddy.” Patrick smiled weakly, Declan grinned and turned again “Bye Saint!”  
Saint grinned and waved from the front door. Pete was stood behind him, eyes burning into Patrick.

 

Patrick felt sick. He still did.

 

It had been three weeks now, and there was only a week to go for Russia. His stomach twisted and writhed in anxiety as he thought about flying to another country with Pete again. God he wasn’t going anywhere near a bar this time, and he was gonna get a fucking _restraining order_ against Brendon.

 

Patrick ducked into his car, and Declan jumped into the passenger’s seat, quickly clipping on his seatbelt. Patrick tried to keep his eyes away from the front door as he drove away, and as they got closer to their own home, he’d almost put Pete Wentz out of his mind-

 

“Dad?”

 

“...Yeah, Dec?”

 

“Saint’s birthday is on Tuesday, can I buy him a present?”

 

Tsunamis of Pete flooded back into his mind. _Thanks a lot Declan_.

 

“...Y-Yeah, that’s fine. What did you…want to get him?”

 

The boy looked thoughtful, head tilting side to side. Patrick smiled softly, he’d felt awful after coming back home, but Declan always cheered him up- and the boy didn’t even know it.

 

“A guitar!”

 

Patrick’s eyes widened and his eyebrows raised. “...uh...why…?”

 

“Well-”

 

Oh no, another long rant of explantation.

 

 

 

“-but really, he likes _music!_ He just lets Wentz teach him soccer ‘cause he wants to spend time with him.”

 

Patrick nodded slowly, he stifled a sigh and opted to exhale quietly instead. “Well, uh- I’ll take you to the mall, and you can- uh... _you can_ -”

 

Declan grinned in understanding and Patrick smiled with a nod, but he didn't finish his sentence. There was no need to.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“Patrick.”

 

He ignored it, and passed Pete an oxygen mask without even looking at him.

Pete exhaled sharply and deeply, but pulled the mask on anyway, tugging the straps into place.

 

“Three.” Finger over the button.

 

“Two.” Pete braced himself, legs bending in anticipation.

 

“One.”

 

Pete started sprinting as fast as he could, but he occasionally insisted on glancing back at Patrick. “Patrick.” He panted, speaking wasn’t easy like this.

 

“Just shut up and run.” Patrick turned his back to Pete, pretending to root around in a cupboard. A few minutes later, the whirring of the treadmill died, along with the sound of footfalls.

Patrick strode back over to the machine, reading the screen with a furrowed brow.

 

 

39\. 74 km/h

 

 

He’d gotten faster, of course he had. ‘Cause Pete Wentz was just fucking perfect at everything.

 

 

 

 

Pete tossed the oxygen mask on the counter, and tugged his shirt back on, gaze burning into Patrick the entire time.

Patrick could feel he was mad, Pete wasn’t used to being ignored, cast aside, denied- everything he wanted, every ** _one_** he wanted, would just fall at his feet.

Cars, money, women, but here was Patrick- a 23 year old doctor, weak and soft, average-looking, divorced- and _he_ was ignoring Pete Wentz.

Patrick wasn’t a Victoria's secret model, a billionaire, or a famous actor- he was just a guy. A guy who Pete couldn’t have. And Patrick knew that pissed him off more than anything.

 

Patrick pretended to stare down at his clipboard on the counter, drifting his pen over the paper and feigning that he was reading, when in truth, he was listening to Pete move behind him. He was waiting for him to leave.

 

-Then, Patrick felt himself shoved into the counter, grunting as his hips knocked against the hard edge. Patrick’s breathing grew frantic as he stared forwards, with blank, terrified eyes.

Pete was pressed against him, his hips were flush against Patrick, they were digging in. His arms were caging the redhead against the counter. He felt Pete's breath on his neck, his lips hovering above the skin.

Patrick’s gaze stayed wide, firm and unwavering, despite the terrified look in his eyes.

He was scared. He didn’t know what Pete was gonna do.

Pete was petulant, like a child. He was spoilt, and when he didn’t get his way, he’d take things by force- by biting, screaming, and fighting, just like any child would.

 

And now he wanted Patrick.

 

And Patrick could _feel it_ , he wasn’t stupid. He knew Pete desperately wanted to take him by force- biting, screaming, and fighting.

 

But he also knew Pete wasn’t stupid.

 

Raping someone would ruin his career, it wouldn't matter if they were just a lowly doctor. Sure, the club might try to keep Patrick quiet, but Pete knew him- resilient, stubborn, headstrong, and would not let Pete live in peace, if he did what he so desperately wanted to do.

 

So when he felt Pete move away, body still tense and muscles still strained- he wasn’t surprised.

The older man spoke again, voice tight. “Saint wanted Declan to come to his birthday party, do whatever you want.”

Patrick breathed deeply to calm the thundering in his chest.

 

“Where is it?”

 

Pete answered, voice even more strained- _if possible_.

 

“My house. Tuesday, at 5.”

 

Patrick nodded, and he heard Pete leave the room, door slamming a little too violently.

Patrick sniffled, breathing growing frantic again and he buried his face into his trembling hands, dropping to his elbows and hunching over against the counter.

 

God, he was afraid.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“Declan!”

 

Saint engulfed his best friend in a tight hug, and both boys laughed happily. “C’mon, I gotta show you-”

The voices faded away as the two friends darted away into the house.

 

Meagan had let them in.

The moment Patrick had saw her, he’d felt guilt twist his stomach.

Patrick wanted to tell her, she deserved to know...but would she _believe_ him? Or would she just scoff, and say ‘ _you wish_ ’?

 

Patrick considered his options:

  1. He told her everything- the full truth. ‘ _Pete and I slept together._ ’
  2. He lied about _who_ Pete had slept with, because, technically, it didn’t matter _who_ it was. He’d cheated- that was indisputable. That would set the ground work, and she’d confront Pete later- and then he would tell her it was Patrick. ‘ _Pete cheated on you in Japan._ ’
  3. He said nothing. Let the party go on as normal and carry the secret to his grave. ‘ _Goodbye Meagan._ ’



 

He chose option three. It hurt. It really fucking hurt, but Saint was a good kid, he didn’t deserve to witness that drama and that vicious argument between his mom and dad. Patrick didn’t want to ruin their relationship, because Patrick didn’t want to ruin Saint’s family.

 

Pete could go choke. But Saint was innocent.

 

“Meagan.” He nodded, and his heart clenched when he saw suspicion glint through her eyes. It soon faded and she let him in, gesturing inside with her hand. He instantly saw Pete- stood in the kitchen, back to the door, and Patrick knew he wasn’t gonna have an easy time today.

 

 

 

 

 

 

He couldn’t stand it anymore.

He couldn’t stand the guilt.

He was gonna tell her.

Patrick had been minding his own business and distracting himself for most of the party, mostly with talking to Joe- who had brought Ruby.

Apparently, despite their slight age difference, Saint and Ruby were great friends- and she was even better friends with Bronx, so when she'd learnt the older Wentz boy was going to be there, she'd begged her dad to let her go.

 

With the complaint that ‘ _Pete didn’t spend enough time with his son_ ’, Ashlee had made the journey from Brazil- where Patrick learnt Pete’s ex-wife and eldest son had been living since their divorce, to LA- to leave Bronx with Pete for a year.

Completely unannounced, completely unplanned and completely oblivious that Pete had to leave to Russia for a month in a mere few days. But that meant that Bronx was now living at 127 West Santa Clara Ave. too, and Patrick could tell that was taking its toll on Meagan.

Unlike the younger Wentz son, Bronx had inherited most things from his father, bar the black hair (Patrick had been very surprised to find out Bronx was actually blonde)- most notably Pete’s charisma, and his soccer skills.

 

Patrick understood that having two Pete Wentz’s running around must be horrifying. He felt sorry for Meagan.

 

For more reason than one.

 

 

 

So as he heard the kids laughing wildly from the study, and when the whole living room/kitchen had finally been deserted of anyone other than Patrick and Meagan- he made his move.

 

Patrick drifted over to her- he had to tell her. He just had to.

 

“Hey, Meagan…?”

 

She was drinking coffee with shaky hands, but glowered up at him with a furrowed brow.

 

Okay, she was _already_ pissed off- not the best start.

 

“I uh- need to talk to you.”

 

She said nothing, but raised her eyebrows with bored eyes- gesturing for him to go on.

 

Patrick sighed shakily and gazed down at the floor for a moment, clenching his eyes shut and biting the inside of his cheek with a wrinkled nose. He was scared. And mad. And remorseful. And ashamed- Fuck it.

 

He had to do this.

 

“S-Something happened- in uh- in _Japan_ , and I-I thought you deserved to kn-”

 

“Hey babe.”

 

Pete had slid out of nowhere, cutting the exchange off with an arm around Meagan’s waist and a soft peck to her mouth.

Patrick tried not to glare. Pete knew damn well what he was doing.

 

“Hi baby.” She smiled softly and moved to kiss him back, and deeply at that, placing her hands on the stubble-covered cheeks- but Pete tugged away. “I gotta talk to the doc for a sec, be right back.”

 

He motioned for Patrick to follow with an easy smile, and while the redhead glowered, he followed- fists clenched.

Pete led him upstairs, and Patrick was getting more anxious with every step, when-

 

“fuCK-”

 

Pete had shoved him into a closet.

Sure, _figuratively_ \- but right now, it was very literal.

Patrick was shoved back against the wall, slumping down while groaning and scrabbling at his aching skull.

He heard scraping, like something was being pushed.

Oh fuck no.

Patrick looked up and saw the door was closed. He growled viciously, and leapt up, punching his fists into the door. “PETE, PETE LET ME OUT- LET ME OUT YOU MOTHERFUCKER-”

 

“Shh, Patrick.”

 

“PETE THIS ISN’T FUCKING FUNNY-”

 

“S’not supposed to be,” Pete’s voice was muffled, but Patrick could just about hear it through the wooden door, so with every one of Pete's words, Patrick had to stay silent. “ _You_ aren’t telling Meagan anything, you got it? You’re not destroying my relationship, you’re not destroying Saint’s life- oh and by the way, there might be spiders in there, so be careful.”

 

“PETE, YOU BITCH LET ME OUT-”

 

He heard footsteps move away and Patrick desperately tried the door handle- jammed. There was no lock, but it wouldn’t budge, so he could only assume Pete had blocked the door with something.

 

Oh god he was panicking- okay, no, stay calm Patrick. He mumbled to himself in an effort to calm his thumping heartbeat down. “It’s okay, you’re okay, there aren’t any spiders in here, he’s just trying to freak you out, it’s fine, you’re okay-” The fear faded, and rage rose from its ashes.

 

“This motherfucker wants a war, he’ll get one.”

 

Patrick pressed his ear to the door and waited, he waited for footsteps, for noise, for someone to get near to let him out. And after what felt like ten minutes, his silent patience was rewarded.

 

He heard footsteps, and he thumped on the door with his fist frantically. He heard a curse, and he tried calling out. “HEY, PLEASE, LET ME OUT OF HERE.”

 

“What the fuck?”

 

“ _LET ME OUT._ ”

 

Patrick heard another soft curse, but then he heard heavy scraping against the floor. Something was being moved, and as soon as he felt the resistance was gone, he desperately opened the door, and stumbled out into the light.

He leaned against the wall panting in relief, and looking up towards his saviour. “Thankyousomu- _Joe?_ ”

Joe looked somewhere between horrified and confused. “U-Uh, _what the fuck_ was that-”

“I’ll explain later, I have to go.”

Patrick pushed off of the wall with his foot and sped down the hall- hoping his soles left a mark on the pristine, white wall.

 

All bets were off- Pete was gonna pay.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Patrick had been wondering around the house, frantically searching for Meagan. She had to know- she had to-

Meagan.

He finally came to the entrance of the kitchen, and he saw Meagan, stood at the far end of the living room, he started speeding forwards when-

 

“- _FUcK_ -”

His voice was muffled as a hand was locked around his mouth and he was dragged through a door. He kicked and struggled, fighting against the strong, tattooed arms that dragged him along the dirt. Patrick growled, and turned just enough to shove his head into his captor's abdomen like a bull- but fuck, the guy was built like a brick wall, and Patrick fell away to his knees with a groan.

However, luckily for him, his skull must have been pretty solid too, because- of fuck, of course it was- his captor: **_PETE_** , had stumbled back into the dirt too. They stared at each other for a second- all growls and snarls, when Patrick noticed-

 

The cliff.

 

Pete had dragged him out to the cliff.

 

To a secluded place with a bench, and a clean dive down into a rocky abyss.

 

 

“WERE YOU GONNA THROW ME OFF THE CLIFF?”

 

 

Pete panted, turning on all fours and pushing himself up with his hands and knees, he smirked at Patrick for a second. “Maybe.”

 

“OH FUCK YOU-”

 

“God just chill out-”

 

“CHILL OUT? THAT’S ATTEMPTED MURDER-”

 

“Oh my god, it was _A JOKE_ \- just calm your tits.”

 

“NO I WILL NOT. THEY WILL REMAIN ANGRY.”

 

Pete rolled his eyes with a grin, standing up straight, before offering a hand to Patrick. “Let’s talk.”

 

Patrick stared at the hand.

 

Patrick glanced back at the house.

 

“Don’t you dare.”

 

Patrick glanced back at the hand.

 

Then up at Pete- no eye-contact of course.

 

Then back at the house.

 

Patrick had made his choice.

 

He sprinted away, kicking up a trail of dust behind him.  
  
“PATRICK-”

 

 

That’s the issue with soccer players- they’re too damn fast, it’s not fair.

In an instant, Pete’s arms were wrapped around Patrick again, and the younger man was kicking at air like a wild, pissed-off stallion. Patrick felt a hand around his mouth as he’d tried to scream, and he yelled and growled into the hand, feeling the words buzz back against Pete’s dirt-grimy palm.

Patrick angled his leg just as Pete had started manhandling him again, dragging him towards the cliff alcove when-

 

“AH, FUCK- YOU BITCH-”

 

Patrick had kicked Pete in the nuts.

And yes he _was_ very proud of himself, thank you for asking.

As Pete whimpered and fell to his knees with a thud, Patrick sprinted into the house, bursting through the door as he looked around the living room, panting- Meagan was gone-

 

“FUCK.”

 

Pete was back in the game, and he’d tackled Patrick again. Pete was lying on him, forearm shoved over Patrick’s mouth, and his voice was a quiet whisper, but it was fucking pissed.

 

“ _We’re gonna talk about this._ ”

 

 

 

 

 

  
Pete and Patrick were in the closet.

Once again- Literally and figuratively.

That was another problem, _in the long list of problems_ , with soccer players: They’re too damn strong. It’s not fair.

Patrick was a soft, weak doctor who’s biggest physical task had been pushing a wheelchair- not fighting off _a machine_ of an athlete.

 

 

Pete held the door handle tightly behind his back, the other shoved Patrick against the wall by the pale neck, gripping tightly.

He wasn’t choking him- thank god, but it was just enough to make Patrick titter on the edge of a panic attack.

 

Wait.

 

A panic attack.

 

Not a bad idea.

 

“-Patrick, so, _please_ , I get you’re mad but-”

 

Patrick hadn’t been listening to Pete at all.

Pete was a manipulative asshole, and Patrick didn’t believe anything that came out of his mouth. This guy was full of shit.

  
Patrick started breathing frantically, chest rising and falling. He wrapped his slender fingers around Pete’s hand, tugging and eyes widening. His mouth fell open in heart wrenching, desperate pants, and he started whimpering fearfully, staring forwards blankly.

 

“-Patrick are you okay?”

 

Patrick’s breathing sped up, sobbing painfully with every whine and whimper, and he felt Pete’s hand spring away, before the older man was on him in a second; Hands pressing tenderly to the sides of his head, eyes wide and full of concern. He pulled Patrick into his chest, rubbing a hand over his back and carding one through the strawberry-blonde hair.

“It’s okay Patrick, just breathe, just breathe for me okay?”

 

Patrick nodded with a mewl against Pete's chest, while behind his back, his pale fingers stretched out towards the handle- but it was too far away.

 

Fuck it. Fuck it all to hell.

 

Desperate times call for desperate measures.

 

He tilted his head up, still neglecting to look Pete in the eyes, but training his gaze on his lips instead. Pete groaned instantly and pressed Patrick against the left wall, and the handle was now inches away. He had to distract Pete if he wanted to grab it without him noticing- and yes, much to his _utter disgust_ , there was only one way.

Patrick swallowed his pride, his anger and the lump in his throat, and slotted his lips against Pete’s.

 

Turns out Pete was just as into him sober- and Patrick found that almost unbelievable.

 

Pete moaned, tilting his head and deepening the kiss, as Patrick’s pale fingers clasped around the door handle. But he- he didn't twist it...for a second- he just- oh fuck. Pete's mouth could go straight to hell. Patrick moaned, he wasn't proud of it, but Pete had just bit his bottom lip- and Patrick was a man _of flesh and bone_ , he had weaknesses, okay?

 

His brain snapped back to its senses when he felt Pete's hips rock against his own.

 

He twisted the handle, and in an instant- he rushed out, pulling a heavy, marble, hallway table over the door, and bolting away when he heard footsteps entering the hall.

He could hear Pete’s yells and punches against the door and Patrick hoped the stranger wouldn’t hear them- _oh fuck_ it was _Joe_ again.

 

 

Patrick crouched behind the corner, watching with wide eyes as Joe stopped in front of the door, hearing the yells.

“ _Fuuuuck_.” Patrick whined softly as he watched Joe pull the table away, and the redhead decided now was a good time to split. “What is it with closets today?” He heard Joe's mumble followed by the door opening- _fuck, gotta go fast_.

 

Patrick gingerly and quietly started stepping down the stairs, and he had successfully reached the second flight, when he heard a yell from above. He looked up and saw Pete, leaning over the banister, hands clenching the wood and mouth snarling like a tiger's.

 

 

“GET THE FUCK BACK HERE.”

 

 

Patrick ran.

 

He ran down the stairs, tripping a few times, and crashing to his knees on the floor. They ached so much, he made a note to check them out. Patrick pulled himself up with a groan and darted through another hallway- he had to find Meagan, he had to-

 

 

“ ** _AH_** \- GET THE FUCK OFF ME.”

 

Pete had tackled him to the ground, and Patrick started kicking as best he could. His legs were the strongest part of his body- sure that didn't mean much, Patrick wasn't very strong- but he’d put the only strength asset he had to good use.

He managed to pull his leg up, thigh flush against his chest, before slamming his foot into the side of Pete’s head- he'd been aiming for the face, really but Pete had quickly turned his face away at the last moment. While Patrick was kinda disappointed Pete wouldn't end up with a black eye- it had been enough, and Pete’s grip loosened.

Patrick pushed himself up with his hands splaying on the cold floor, and his legs started moving to dart away when- “AH, FUcK-”

 

 

A loud thud and Patrick’s face was on the floor again.

Pete’s hand was wrapped around his calf with a bruising grip, and Patrick growled, finding strength from within and pushing himself forwards, hands helping him stand.

He kept walking- albeit slowly, by supporting himself on the wall, dragging himself along with paintings and hallway tables. Pete was still clinging to his leg, dragging behind him. Patrick glanced back and saw the soccer player trying to pull up to his knees, just to find enough strength to pull Patrick backwards. The redhead snarled, and kicked his leg forwards, making Pete crash down again.

Patrick leaned against a doorframe, kicking at Pete’s hand with his other foot. “GET _OFF_ \- JUST-”

 

“FUCK YOU- NEVER-”

 

One good kick to Pete’s face and the weight was lifted.

Looks like he'd have a black eye after all.

 

Patrick bolted away- speeding up when he heard growls and hard, heavy, and furiously-fast footfalls behind him.

Patrick sprinted down a hallway, turning for a second to glance back at Pete. Oh fuck he was faster, a lot faster- and oh fuck, he was mad.

 

Patrick skidded to a stop in the entrance-lobby- thing, did houses even have lobbies? No they didn’t, or at least- _they shouldn’t_ \- this isn’t a hotel or anything, _**PETE**_.

 

 

Meagan.

He saw Meagan, just in the kitchen, back turned to him, gazing out at the view and holding a cup of something that smelled like green tea. She was a few meters away, so close, she was-

Patrick’s face stoned in determination as he marched ahead, he decided to yell out for her, just in case Pete caught up- “Meag-!”

 

The instant the words left his mouth, Patrick had been shoved into another room by a heavy force from the side- just missing the girl turn around with a furrowed brow.

 

 

 

 

“LISTEN _HERE_ , AND LISTEN _GOOD_ MOTHERFU-”

 

A lot of children stared up at them with wide, confused eyes.

 

They were in the study. The kids were examining Saint’s gifts, and they were all playing with them.

 

 

Pete stopped in the middle of his curse, finger still pointing accusingly at Patrick, but eyes wide in fearful shock, staring down at the kids. Patrick’s eyes were wide in regret- horrible, cringy regret.

 

“...Are you okay dad?”

 

Bronx chimed in, tilting his head from his seat next to a slack-jawed Ruby. Patrick’s gaze shifted to Declan and Saint, who were sat together in a leather chair, arms resting on the desk, and with the guitar Declan had gifted his friend sat across both their laps.

 

“I-I’m fine.”

 

Pete’s voice was quiet, hesitant- and scared shitless.

 

“Are _you_ okay dad?”

 

Declan stared up at his own wide eyed father. Patrick smiled tightly, slapping Pete’s pointing hand down, and earning a quick glare from the older man. “-Yeah buddy, I’m fine.”

 

“Uncle Pete why were you yelling the needle doctor?”

 

Pete swallowed, so did Patrick. They both glanced at each other- Patrick just...avoiding _the eyes_.

Pete tried to start with a stutter. “W-Well, uh- we- uh- d- I-I-”

 

“We were just having a discussion-”

“We were just having an argument-”

  
They both glared at each other.

 

 

“W-Why were you arguing?” Saint looked scared, and positively miserable. Shit, Patrick prayed they hadn’t just ruined this kid’s birthday.

  
  
“U-Uh j-just about, uh-”  
  
He glanced at Patrick with pleading eyes, and Patrick blurted out the first stupid argument that came to his mind.

 

 

 

“A-About, if... _Greedo_...or, _Han Solo_...shot first.”

 

 

 

Pete glared for a second, but that response seemed to calm the children, so he softened and Patrick assumed he’d forgiven the nerdy argument, and had let it pass.

“Adults are real silly.” A kid that Patrick didn’t recognize as any of the players’ chimed from another chair, and the duo of adults ignored the insulting feeling- and opted to just awkwardly laugh and back away through the door, glaring at each other as they stumbled past each other's legs.

 

As soon as the door closed, Patrick made a move to sprint to the kitchen, but Pete was fast- he didn’t have striker’s reflexes for nothing.

Pete pulled him through the front door, and pulled him by the arms down the rural drive that led down the cliff, and away from his house.

They’d just hit the tunnel of trees and Patrick had started fighting back. He buried his feet into the dirt, pulling back, but then- he felt his joints strain. He stopped. This was _not_ worth dislocating an arm for.

 

Patrick let Pete pull him into a small grove thick with trees, he shoved Patrick against a trunk, and surveyed, staring back at the house with wide eyes. The older man nodded to himself, and turned his gaze back on Patrick, eyes narrowed.

 

“Why are you trying to ruin this-”

 

“-She deserves to know, Pete-”

 

“-You called me Pete.”

 

Patrick glared at Pete’s cheek, avoiding the pleading, whiskey-brown eyes. He scowled and hissed again.

 

“ _Wentz_.”

 

Pete’s face dropped again, and the force pushing him into the tree got stronger, and angrier. One of Pete’s fists was fisted into Patrick’s shirt, the other was gripping the lapel of his leather jacket.

 

Patrick could feel him staring, trying to coax the gaze of the baby-blues, but Patrick gave him nothing.

Patrick hoped- he prayed, that Pete would find some tiny shred of decency in his heart, and that he’d do the right thing- that he’d tell Meagan the truth, being lied to was awful. Patrick knew it, Patrick had felt it, Patrick would give anything to never feel it again-

 

 

 

“...I’m not gonna tell her.”

 

 

 

Of course.

 

Asshole ‘til the end.

 

 

“-Patrick please.”

 

“Let me go.”

 

“Patrick-"

 

“I’m not gonna run. I won’t tell her. I swear.”

 

The grip on Patrick’s clothes loosened for a split second, before the hands tensed again.

 

 

 

 

“Swear on Declan’s life.”

 

 

 

 

Patrick inhaled, deep, angry- no, _more_ than angry: _furious_.

 

“Fuck you. Fuck you so much, you piece of shit.”

 

The hands moved away with a shove, and Patrick could only bring himself to stare at Pete’s mouth- open and panting in rage.

  
Patrick held back angry tears and stumbled away, stalking back towards his car. He dropped into the driver's seat, head against the steering wheel as he breathed heavily. He just needed a few seconds. He needed them somewhere familiar, somewhere comforting, somewhere he knew. He'd go back inside in a minute, and he'd stand in the corner- waiting for the party to be over.

 

 

Patrick wasn’t going to tell Meagan.

 

Pete would.

 

He knew Pete would crack eventually.

 

He’d seen that look on Elisa’s face.

 

Regret, shame, fear.

 

He knew it well.

 

It never lasted.

 

 

 

 

 

  
Patrick felt Pete’s stare on his back one last time, as he took his son’s hand and led him out of the door.

Patrick waved goodbye to Joe with a tired smile as the man grinned back, and waved, ushering his daughter into their car.

Joe was much more responsible that Pete was- he didn’t have a supercar, he had a BMW, and while it _was_ expensive, it was much more suited for driving kids around- Something Pete hadn’t seemed to consider when he’d bought twelve storage garages full of _two-seater_ supercars.

 

“...Did you have fun?”

 

“YES! It was awesome! Saint loved the guitar, he was so happy, and that made me happy! ‘Cause he’s my best friend and-”

 

Patrick had to admit, he tuned out a little. He nodded along to the long, cheery rant about ‘ _best-friendship_ ’ and exhaled silently, knuckles white around the steering wheel.

 

Another month abroad with Pete Wentz.

 

 

God help him.

 

 

 


	8. I'll Be The Mess, You Play The Medicine

 

32 teams.

 

32 countries.

 

One cup.

 

It was vicious. Had always been, and would always be.

 

But, thankfully, the US had some of the most talented players ever seen, and everyone was sure they would persevere.

 

The US had made it to the semi-final, they’d beat Argentina and England with high scores, and now, they were due to play against Italy.

 

One more match, and if they beat the Italians, they were in the final.

 

 

Patrick sat in the benches of the Luzhniki stadium in Moscow. He rubbed his hands together, and he found himself very grateful that they were given fleeces to wear, because even though the stadium had been equipped with all kinds of insulating technology that Patrick knew nothing about- It was still Russia, it was still nighttime, it was still _really fucking cold_.

 

Patrick's eyes shifted as he watched the players walk out from the tunnel, all clad in their kits and Patrick literally had no idea how they weren’t getting hypothermia and dropping like flies right now.

The Italians were dressed in blue, and to as not confuse themselves and the crowds, the US had worn their alternate kits- which were completely red, with dark burgundy shoulders.

 

At the start of international matches, the national anthems of both teams would be played, and the crowd and players would usually sing the words along to the instrumentals.

Patrick’s head shot up as he heard a male announcer’s voice in Russian buzzing from the stadium's speakers, and it was promptly followed by a female voice, translating the words in accented English.

 

“Please stand for the Italian national anthem.”

 

As a sign of respect, even the Americans stood, but they didn’t press their hands to their hearts- as the Italians did.

The cheery tune burst into life, and Patrick heard the huge mass of Italian fans behind him belting out the words- with not much tune, but a lot of passion.

Patrick’s eyes flitted over to Pete, as both teams stood in lines. The mascots looked up at them with grins, and they were begging for signatures on their shirts with pens that they had snuck in.

Pete looked focused, ready- just like he always did before a match.

Patrick thought he always looked very unapproachable like that; His face practically screamed ‘ _I’m rich, I’m talented and I don’t care about you at all_ ’, but Patrick knew _that_ wasn’t what was actually going through his mind.

It was more like ‘ _Don’t disappoint your country, your family, your people, your teammates_ ’, and buzzing the background, Patrick knew there were strategies- Mountains, upon mountains of strategies. Pete was the captain after all, he wore the ‘10’- marking him out as their leader, and as the best in the squad. He had to lead them to victory, that was his job.

 

Patrick had been trying his best to distance himself from the older man, and that had seemed to suit Pete just fine too.

After the secret fiasco at Saint’s birthday, Pete seemed as though he’d...given up. In medical tests, he’d just shut up and let Patrick do what he had to- no conversations, no coaxing, no pleading.

Patrick assumed he must have come back to his senses; Patrick wasn’t a catch or anything, he was just an average guy, nothing special, while Meagan was a model, and the mother of his youngest child. Patrick assumed Pete had been frantic with the idea that ‘ _the grass is always greener on the other side_ ’, but Pete must have realized that it was pretty fucking green on his _own_ side right now.

And Patrick was glad. He was glad Saint would have a normal childhood- both parents present, and Patrick lamented that he couldn’t do that for Declan.

 

 

“Please stand for the American national anthem.”

 

 

Patrick flinched at the loud buzzing voices, and his eyes snapped away from Pete and up to the ceiling of the stadium. It had an open roof, and Patrick could just about see stars past the bright, stadium lights. Suddenly, the American anthem burst into life, coursing through his ears and echoing through the stadium. Patrick pressed a hand to his heart- mirroring everyone else.

The words rang in his skull as the fans, players and staff sang them, and Patrick felt goosebumps explode all across his skin with a shiver. He wasn't sure if it was the music or the cold- or if it was a combination of both. 

Their anthem's words were slower than the Italian's, but more triumphant- and actually louder, somehow. Less of a frantic burst, and more of a resilient strength.

Patrick sang along quietly, hoping his voice would be lost in the sea of American voices, and soon enough, the music ended, and cheering rose through the stadium, as the players moved their hands from their chests and started preparing.

 

 

The two lines walked past each other, each player shaking hands, before running out to their positions.

Pete and an Italian player, who’s shirt read ‘ _Buffon_ ’ and ‘1’, ran out into the center of the pitch, to stand with the referee. The referee spoke to both of them, head shaking softly, and eyes wide but firm- he seemed to be explaining something, or laying down the ground rules, Patrick wasn't sure which. The distance, crowd and ambient noise drowned out all possibility he had of hearing the man's words.

Patrick watched as Pete chewed his bottom lip, but nodded quickly, and so did Buffon, and at the signals- the referee flipped a coin.

The copper coin was tossed into the air, glinting slightly with in the lights, before it landed and the referee clasped his right hand over it. He uncovered the coin, that was resting on the back of his left hand.

Patrick looked up at the large stadium screens that clearly showed the result: Tails.

Pete grinned but Buffon sighed at the result, and the referee handed the ball to the American player, ordering the Italian to leave to his poistion.

 

Buffon went back to his post- Patrick had been surprised to find out he was actually Italy’s goalie, and not a striker. Pete placed the ball in the center of the pitch, right on a white dot in the center of a white circle. He rested his boot on it, while he called Tyler and Brendon over with a yell of their names and a wave of his arm.

They both ran over and stood close, listening intently. The older man seemed to be explaining something, and both younger players' faces instantly broke into wide grins, and they both nodded. Brendon ran back to his position, but Tyler stayed, a small grin on his lips as he looked down, tapping his toes against the grass.

 

They waited for the referee.

 

The referee surveyed the pitch one last time, before nodding as he brought the whistle to his mouth, and everyone across the world held their breath.

Then, the loud scream of the whistle rang out, ricocheting all through the stadium- and the cheers erupted suddenly.

 

Pete instantly kicked the ball to Tyler, and they seemed to make a break for it; If they could get the score up instantly, it didn’t matter if the Italians drew the number- because Pete was an expert in last minute goals.

Tyler had made a break for it, sprinting down the white pitch border with an Italian defender hot on his trail. Tyler stopped abruptly, making the defender keep stumbling ahead, while the American player was given a window of opportunity. He sprinted towards the middle of the field, the goal was only around seven meters away, but it was packed with three, good defenders.

Tyler was re-surrounded by the four Italians, one angry and panting at being thrown off, and while the younger man looked nervous, he rolled the ball back, eyes darting to the sides, searching.

The defenders had been so distracted with Tyler, that they hadn’t noticed Brendon creep up beside them- but still positioning himself ahead of the fourth defender.

_Of course_ , they didn’t want to get an _offside_ , and Patrick nodded in thought; This was a good strategy, _sure_ it was really risky, and it required talent to pull off- but the American team had talent to spare.

 

Tyler grinned and with one smooth motion, he chipped the ball over the Italian players’ heads and straight to Brendon- who instantly shot it into the goal with a powerful kick as the ball flew past in mid-air, and it perfectly sailed past Buffon.

 

Cheers erupted like boiling lava running from a furious volcano. On the large screens, the cameras focused on the players, before replaying the goal. Tyler and Brendon hugged briefly, but tightly. They had perpetual grins on their faces, and linking arms around each other's necks, before running over to Pete and hugging him too.

Pete was grinning, and Patrick could tell he was laughing too. The older man clapped both of the younger player’s on the shoulders proudly, mouth moving in speedy rants of praise, and Patrick could safely assume that risky move had been _his_ strategy.

 

Patrick gave a small smile as he looked up at the screens on the stadium’s walls again, which now displayed some fans who had been zoomed in on: A group of women wrapped in flags, faces painted and bouncing with loud, joyful laughter. A kid sat on her dad’s shoulders, her flag-painted face was drowned in pure awe and adoration. A huge gathering of friends, all kissing the US badges on their jerseys, and pointing at them with bright, slightly smug, grins.

Patrick had never really liked soccer, he’d never understood why the people loved it so much- but since he'd started working with Pete Wentz, he could begin to understand, and he instinctively knew- as he watched another group of friends pointing to the name ‘ _Wentz_ ’, that was emblazoned across their backs- He just knew, Pete would be remembered for centuries, and he’d go down in history as a legend.

 

 

 

 

 

 

It was snowing now.

_Russia_ , Jesus Christ.

Patrick shivered and burrowed his face into the neck of his fleece, wishing he'd worn a scarf, and gloves, and a hat- or maybe just a fucking arctic suit, that might have worked.

Patrick also noticed the players were trembling with cold, most Americans weren’t used to this weather- and the Italians were even _less used to it_ \- if possible. But, that had seemed to benefit the US team during the match, as the Italians had become less responsive, and could hardly think through their chattering teeth and vain attempts to warm themselves up.

 

The score was 3-0 to the US, and there were thirty minutes of game time left. And Patrick could tell the Italians were _not happy_.

 

The fans booed the American players- although their sounds were drowned out by the US fans’ cheers. The US players would get things thrown at them if they dared to venture to the pitch borders- as that would put them in firing distance.

And the Italian _players_ weren’t too happy either- the only one who’d really kept their cool was Buffon, who was often seen trying to calm his defenders down.

That was another thing: _The defenders_. They’d turned vicious, tackling with no mercy, and more than one American had taken a rough fall. Patrick knew there would be a lot of cuts and bruises to treat after this, and he felt small pangs of worry as he watched the red grazes and black splotches on Gerard's arms and legs as he jogged past the pitch border- narrowly missing a water bottle that had been thrown at him.

Borisova was especially nervous now. Out of her worry, she’d ordered the rest of the doctors to be alert, and to be ready for anything. So, Patrick had obliged, and he was hunched over in his seat, hands clasped together and resting against his mouth. His eyes were wide, scanning, attentive, and they flicked between any American players who were in proximity to the ball. The ball was practically a moving danger zone, if you were near it- you were a target.

 

 

Patrick squinted nervously and firmly, watching carefully as he noticed a scuffle between Pete, and a midfielder, who’s shirt read ‘ _De Rossi_ ’.

The ball was at Pete’s feet, and he was struggling to keep it that way from De Rossi’s constant- and, Patrick was pretty sure- _against the rules_ , tackling.

Pete was getting tired, Patrick could tell. Sure he was the best America had to offer, and he might've even be one of the _world’s_ best- but he was still only human.

Pete was struggling and completely alone, he’d bolted to the midfield, and his teammates were being desperately fought off by Italian strikers, midfielders and defenders- against the orders of Buffon, who was yelling at them from across the pitch. Patrick didn't know what the Italian captain was saying, but he sounded frantic, angry, but merciful at the same time.

Patrick’s eyes flicked to Mikey, who seemed to be yelling too. However, _he_ seemed to be giving Pete advice. He yelled again with wide eyes, and with a finger pointing up to the sky. Pete nodded at Mikey, seemingly liking the idea, and he slid the ball back across the damp, frosty, and muddy grass, before flicking it up once with a small bounce, and then, as it fell again- he kicked it straight upwards.

The thunderous thud rang through the stadium, and all eyes were locked upwards. People clambered over each other to look up into the dark Russian sky, squinting, pointing and yelling, trying to follow the ball as it was momentarily lost in the blindingly-bright stadium lights.

And then, like a meteor from the sky- it came back down, landing a few meters further away, with a thud.

 

De Rossi sprinted forwards, instantly taking the ball to his feet, and the Italians started cheering as the man made a start for the US goal. All the players sprung into action, chasing De Rossi down, moving into positions.

The defenders took their stances, and stared, eyes dark with intimidation as they prepared themselves to fight back. Joe hunched his shoulders, glancing at the net behind him with stern eyes and a heavy exhale- before his eyes locked back on the ball that was speeding towards him, being dribbled by De Rossi. The mid-fielders chased the Italian players down, guarding around them, in an effort to try to steal the ball if it was kicked towards them.

The strikers had moved forwards a little with wide eyes, and Patrick could tell they were itching to run forwards and help- but Pete had always warned them: ‘ _Stay in your positions, ‘cause some asshole like me could try the 2008 Munich trick_ ’.

 

Pete-

 

Wait.

 

Pete.

 

He wasn’t there.

 

Patrick furrowed his brow, head shooting up from his hands, and eyes scanning the pitch.

He would have expected Pete to be with the strikers, waiting for a midfielder, or a defender- or even _Joe_ , to clear the ball to them...but, he...wasn’t.

Patrick stood suddenly, taking a firm step forwards, hands shielding his eyes from the blinding lights and squinting, trying to-

 

Oh shit.

 

Pete.

 

Oh fuck, Pete.

 

Pete was crumpled into a heap in front of the Italian benches, just on the pitch boundary. The Italians seemed to be ignoring him, while some younger substitute players gave him mocking grins. Patrick felt rage burn in his stomach, and he turned to tell Borisova- but she was already ten steps ahead.

The referee blew a whistle, looking up at the booth and drawing a circle with his finger, asking for a replay of what had happened to Pete, while nodding at the American doctors and motioning for them to go to the player.

Borisova had talked to the man to ask him to suspend the match, so that they could deal with Pete.

Patrick, along with the doctor from Ohio- who Patrick had learnt was named Jake Martins, over an awkward ‘ _Hey you never actually told me your name_ ’ conversation, strode across the pitch- being quickly caught up by, and subsequently led, by Borisova.

They strode across the pitch, while trying to look calm and steady, since Borisova had ordered them to keep their composure- no sprinting, no yelling, no horrified stares or gasps. Of course, they didn’t know what they would be facing, but they didn’t want to send American fans into a frenzy.

If an Italian player had injured Pete- _Well_...they’d have to deal with a mass scale fight between the Italians and the Americans- between both the crowds, _and_ the players.

 

 

 

 

They finally reached the other side of the pitch, and Patrick couldn't help but glare a little at the Italian benchers. Fucking childish assholes, it doesn't matter if someone's on the opposing team- they're still a human being, you should still fucking help them, out of plain, common, decency.

Patrick and Martins quickly knelt beside Pete, while Borisova stood behind them, arguing quietly and scolding the Italian manager for not alerting anyone about their injured player- Pete had been on the floor for about a good six minutes, and if something was _really wrong_ , those minutes could have had huge consequences.

 

 

Patrick looked down, and he stopped himself from exhaling painfully as he felt his heart clench.

Pete was on his side, face smushed into the soil, and breathing heavily, laced with quick pained and terrified whimpers, and long, wheezing whines. His hands were grass-stained and grazed, and they were pressed to his eyes, while his mouth was open in jagged pants and groans.

Patrick looked up at Martins, who was knelt behind Pete, pulling the back of his shirt up and assessing any damage. The man’s eyes were wide, and his jaw was slack, he looked up at Patrick, head shaking slightly.

Some fans must have seen the horror on his face, because jeers started at the Italians, and Patrick noticed a few arguments breaking out. He watched an American fan arguing with an Italian- before they'd both started shoving each other and trying to throw punches, but only to be held back by their own groups of friends.

Borisova strode back over to Patrick and Martins, face contorted into furious worry, and brow furrowed in fear. “We have to get him off the pitch. Now.”

She signalled the Russian medical staff, and one bolted over, stopping with a stumble and asking what they needed in slightly broken English.

As they talked, Patrick shifted slightly to see Pete’s back, leaning over and placing a hand on the grass to support himself. They were trying to keep everything hidden as best they could, but Patrick noticed the US players hanging around nervously on the edges, eyes wide and worried, some chewing their lips, some grimacing, and Patrick could tell some of Pete's closer friends- Andy and Joe looked notably horrified, desperately wanted to rush forwards- but they knew better than to approach and risk Borisova’s wrath. They had to keep it all quiet, if not- their fans would suffer for it.

 

Patrick’s eyes drifted over Pete’s back and-

 

Oh fuck.

 

...Something looked... _wrong_...

 

It was... _crooked_. And, it was _bent_...oddly.

 

Patrick tilted his head, trying to fight back the anxiety and fear clawing through his chest. He glanced up at Martins- who’s eyes were still wide and horrified. Patrick wondered if this was his first time treating an injury this bad. He felt sorry for him. Patrick knew that wild fear, that overwhelming feeling of responsibilities that you felt as though you can't complete.

The first serious injury Patrick had ever treated was an old man who's leg had been crushed by a car. Patrick was still doing work experience at the time, and he was only 19. A lot of doctors had been too busy for the man, but Patrick had managed to treat him well enough by himself, but he'd been tittering on the edge of a panic attack the whole time. After he'd treated that old man, he'd sat in the stairwell, dropped his forehead into his knees, and he'd cried. That night- along with all the promises from his teachers, had convinced him to take sports medicine. He never wanted to have that much blood on his hands again.

 

 

After a few minutes, a whole team Russian medical staff rushed back with a stretcher, and the doctors shifted away, getting to their feet, and trying to give them some space.

Patrick winced as they roughly pulled Pete onto the stretcher, and he noticed the player tense and bite into his forearm, desperately trying to stay silent. They carried him through the tunnel- that was mercifully close. If they’d had to march across the pitch with the injured player, Patrick was pretty sure there would have been a riot. Pete seemed to know that too, and Patrick assumed- that that knowledge explained the silence. Pete was trying to pretend he was fine, he didn't want fights starting over him.

 

As the doctors marched after their charge, Patrick gave one last glance back towards the pitch, watching Jon Walker be substituted in to take Pete’s place. He heard the roaring crowd, between cheers for Jon, and insults at the Italians.

Patrick hoped the match kept going well for their side, because if it didn’t, there was going to be a lot of fighting tonight.

 

 

 

 

 

 

The moment the Russians had shoved him onto a medical bed, and had left him in the room with the three American doctors- Pete had started sobbing.

He’d been trembling in pain the whole time, but had kept silence for the sake of calming the fans- but now, in merciful privacy with three trusted doctors, he finally broke his tortuous silence.

The doctors moved quickly and efficiently, pulling on gloves, finding equipment, and searching the unknown cupboards for painkillers. Patrick groaned as he noticed all the drug labels were in Russian, when he heard a loud click from behind him.

He turned to see Borisova clicking on an audio recorder, and placing it lightly on a counter, the red light blinking steadily.

Patrick gave her a confused look, and she explained with out even looking up from the furious scribbling on her clipboard. “It’s for the board, if he’s injured and he can’t play again, they’ll want compensation from Fifa-”

 

“ _If he can’t play again_ …?”

 

She said nothing in response to Patrick’s bewilderment, and only continued. “They’ll need a full audio recording for court.” She placed down the clipboard, and all three doctors moved to quickly assess Pete.

 

His hands scrambled at his face, leaving crescent moon indents on his skin as he sobbed painfully into his palms. His fingers moved to pull at his own hair; His palms were still over his eyes, but his mouth was revealed- parted in desperate, miserable noises and bleeding, due to his lips being littered with painfully deep indents. Patrick's eyes softened, but watered too- Pete had been biting down to keep himself quiet.

Pete breathed deeply, shakily, before his voice trembled as he gave a heavy sobbing moan of agony. Patrick felt his heart clench.

 

Borisova motioned for Martins and Patrick to move him- they needed to check his back, if there was something wrong with his spine… _oh god_ , _if there was something wrong with his spine_.

 

The two men tenderly pushed Pete onto his side, but the soccer player _screamed_ , and Patrick felt everything inside him writhe in fear. Pete’s back jolted with pained sobs, and he made heart wrenching noises between sobs and screams the whole time. He'd started sobbing like a child, hands over his eyes and breathing frantic. Patrick was sure he'd start yelling for his mom in a minute, and he wouldn't blame him at all if he did.

If just turning him over to his side had hurt him _that_ much- oh god, Patrick was _scared_.

 

“They moved him too roughly,” Dr. Borisova strode over with a pair of scissors. “They could have made it worse.” Patrick felt a lump in his throat. He knew it, he knew they’d been too rough and he felt as though he was drowning in guilt for doing nothing to stop them. Fuck- he should have stopped them. He should have made them lift Pete as though he were the _fucking Oppenheimer Blue diamond_.

 

“...They should have used a spinal board, not a stretcher.” Martins still looked horrified, and he visibly winced at every one of Pete’s sobs or screams. Patrick was at least glad he’d managed to keep his own composure, if he broke down into a panic attack right now, it wouldn’t help Pete at all.

 

Borisova gracefully cut through the back of the jersey, and Patrick chewed his lip as he heard the woman give a stuttered inhale.

 

Oh god it was horrible.

 

It had gotten worse.

 

Patrick didn't want to look at it.

 

Patrick wanted to avert his eyes, but he couldn’t.

 

He was a professional, he had to help, that was _his job_.

 

Pete's words rung in his mind. Those words that had pissed him off immediately, that had given him an instant bad impression of the famous ' _Pete Wentz_ '.

 

_'Isn't that like- what they pay you for?'_

 

Patrick exhaled shakily, and furrowed his brow, staring down at the skin with heavy breathing.

 

The spine was visible through Pete’s skin, poking out against the surface- but, that was normal, Pete was a skinny guy, and his spine was prominent against the lean muscle and under the skin.

 

But, this time- it didn't look...normal.

 

It didn't look like it usually did. And while Patrick was still a little ashamed by how familiar he was with Pete's spine- It was helping him right now.

 

There were odd lumps in different places and the indent of the spine was twisted...and, _contorted_ , so much so that it looked like-

 

“It’s like an ‘S’- T-That's not...Th-that's not normal.”

 

Martins' eyes were wide and terrified, index finger tracing over the line in the air.

 

“There _is_ a proper term for that, Martins- but yes.” Dr. Borisova exhaled, “Turn him onto his front.”

The two other doctors nodded, and Patrick moved to the other side of the table. They carefully shifted Pete onto his back- only coaxing more desperate screams and sobs from the man, now muffled by the table. He was sobbing into the surface, and every burst of cries or every scream, only made his back look even more painful than it already did. As they ran an ultrasound scanner down the center of Pete's back- he screamed again, loud and fierce. And as they poked, and prodded, Patrick could hear Pete sobbing weakly, and he had been right- Pete had started crying for his mom, they were soft sobs of the word at first, before turning into screams, begging for his mother every time one of the doctors pressed something down. The veins in his neck were prominent and tense with every scream, and he collapsed into shivers, shudders and trembles. His eyes were red with the tears- and fuck- Patrick’s heart hurt, oh god, Pete-

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Five hours of examination, and the conclusion had been reached.

 

 

“T6 spinal injury- Likely scoliosis. Possible paraplegia.”

 

 

In layman’s terms: Everything from the coccyx to his thoracic spine was injured. Disks were slipped, bones were bruised and most of his spine was messed up from physical trauma.

It was likely most of Pete’s spine was twisted.

It was possible he'd never feel anything from the ribs down again, and...it was possible he’d never walk again.

 

 

Patrick watched Borisova note it down on her clipboard, before sighing and clicking her pen, stuffing it back into her lab coat pocket.

She looked tired, and dishevelled; Once neatly, tied back mousey brown, grey-streaked hair was escaping in messy strands, bursting free from the hair tie. Her sleeves were rolled up messily, and her gloves were torn. She looked pale, and there were large bags under her eyes.

 

Martins looked the same, but the horror had slowly faded from his eyes. Five hours of listening to graphic, nausea-inducing screams tended to do that. Nothing could really shock you much after that. Patrick knew from personal experience, and he felt sorry for the guy- he felt empathy. The guy was only young, 20 years old- he was kind of a medical wunderkind, but being naturally talented couldn't save you from the terror.

 

Patrick knew he himself looked worse. The looks the other two gave him were indication were enough.

They all looked down at Pete. He'd passed out after the fourth hour, and Patrick assumed it was out of pain. His mind had decided to switch off to stop the pain. Patrick's eyes flitted over the crooked line of his spine. He couldn't even grimace or wince anymore, he just felt... _empty_.

 

 

Pete Wentz might be stuck in a wheelchair for the rest of his life.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Patrick stared out at the Red Square, eyes flitting over the bright, twisting spires of St. Basil’s cathedral. Twisting. Images of Pete’s spine flashed through his head, and he sobbed suddenly, burying his face in his hands, and hunching over a little on the bench.

Patrick breathed deeply ‘ _Inhale, exhale, inhale, exhale_ ’, while shuddering in the cold night air as he tried to calm his breathing.

He looked up again, hands still covering his mouth and nose as his wide eyes blinked at the cathedral. He'd always wanted to see it in person, and now here he was, with the perfect opportunity to just gaze at it- but all his mind wanted to focus on was Pete. Everything reminded him of Pete.

 

 

 

 

He was so buried in his own thoughts, he didn't hear the noise next to him.

 

"Are _you_ -"

 

Patrick's head shot up of its own accord, jolting to the side with a thundering heart.

It was Borisova.

He exhaled shakily and sat up straight, wiping his eyes with his jacket sleeve. “S-Sorry, Dr. Boris-”

“Call me Sonia, Patrick.” She looked tired, as she smiled softly at the cathedral. “I don’t want to be a doctor right now.” Patrick nodded shakily, eyes moving back to the spires. “...Neither do I.”

Sonia laughed quietly, and Patrick found himself joining her. He didn’t know how his body could produce laughter right now, but it did. It _felt_ _wrong_ though.

There was silence for a good ten minutes, as both of them opted to watch the drifting snow fall past the streetlights, dropping in flurries of flakes, and powdering the ground.

It was beautiful, and a good distraction for a while, before-

 

 

 

“...He’s on a plane right now. Back to LA.”

 

 

 

Sonia glanced over at Patrick, before burrowing her face into her scarf. Patrick felt everything inside of him ache. He should be there. He should be helping Pete. He shouldn't be sat on a bench in the Red Square. He should be performing surgery, not admiring a cathedral. He shouldn’t feel this calm. He shouldn’t be this placid.

“H-How was he, b-before…?”

Patrick could see the woman tense in the corner of his eye, and he already knew the answer.  
  
“The same.”

 

Patrick exhaled deeply and shakily, clenching his eyes shut as he felt them prickling. He had to move away from these thoughts, the guilt was devouring him alive. He had to change the subject. He just had to, but god, did he feel guilty about it.

  
  
“H-How’d the match go?”

 

She smiled gratefully, and Patrick assumed she was finding the 'Pete Wentz' subject hard too. Sonia Borisova- one of the most respect sports doctors in the US- if not the world, had let America's star player be treated roughly, and may have, _unknowingly_ , caused even more injuries to the player. If that ever got out- which it probably would, she might just be ruined.

 

“We won.”

 

They both smiled with relief, no fights tonight, that was always a plus. “...Italy scored... _two_ , though. Ours were...distracted, and worried- very worried.”

Patrick fluttered his eyes shut again, biting the inside of his cheek. The whole team was distracted, huh? If it stayed that way, it wasn’t going to get any better. On top of _that_ , they were now missing their captain, their best player, and Pete’s quick and clever strategies were a huge key to their success- No one could predict Pete Wentz, he was a bonafide trickster.

And now he was gone. Maybe forever.

 

 

Patrick felt tears prickling at his eyes, and he growled quietly, swiping them away, as he glared up at the sky.

“...I...I-” Sonia smiled ruefully, eyes trained on the spires, as though she was concentrating to be able keep her composure. “I was... _good friends_ , with a player once- long before the sport was...popular, or anything- Long before Wentz.” Patrick looked at her with soft, attentive eyes. He had a sneaking suspicion that ' _good friends_ ' meant a little more than what it sounded like.

 

Wait.

 

But, it she was using _that_ story to comfort Patrick...does that mean she... _knew_...?

 

Oh _fuck_ , did she _know?_

 

“He was American, and- and- I don’t know, _you might have been too young_ to remember, but- h-he, _died_.”

 

Patrick was amazed at her composure. If he was telling someone that Pe- _if any of his friends_ , had died in some accident, he didn’t know if he could have been so calm. He imagined himself bawling, sobbing, and crying like a drama queen- he couldn't imagine himself with a straight face in _that_ situation.

 

She looked up at him with a tired smile, “It was similar to...to that fight in Amsterdam- with Blind, do you remember?”

Patrick nodded, and suddenly, her panic back then had made sense. Her wild eyes, her heavy breathing- She'd been reminded of her own...' _good friend_ '.

 

“It wasn’t a fight though, t-the ball was...a corner shot, a-and, uh-” Sonia shook her head, trying to clear her mind. She looked as though she was replaying it in her head, eyes clamped shut and hand moving with the ball.

“Came across, and my... _friend_ was, ah- H-he um...” She exhaled deeply, opening her eyes and dropping her hands into her lap. “He was kicked in the throat.”

Patrick winced, feeling empathy, and freaky ghost-pressure in his neck. She noticed, and smiled softly, before looking out again. “Adam’s apple. His windpipe was crushed, and he- he fell. He fell to his knees and he died there...And I-I- couldn’t do anything.”

 

Patrick looked somber now, and his own brain had decided to torture him by replaying the situation in Amsterdam. _Vividly_. Imagining how it could have gone differently.

He imagined himself trying to help Pete, kneeling over him with wide eyes- but Pete would just give strained, croaking groans and whines, coughing up spit, bile and blood as his face turned blue, and he died on the grass- clawing at his neck. It would have been broadcast everywhere. On every screen across the world. Patrick imagined Pete's sons watching their father die on TV.

Patrick tried to hold back more tears, he'd cried enough today.

 

“I’m sorry if that made you feel worse.” She chuckled sadly, and Patrick went to answer, to assure her it was okay, and to, _thank her_ for opening up like that- when she cut him off before a noise left his mouth.

“I just wanted you to understand, that, _it’s not your fault_. Things happen, and sure, you can _feel_ like it’s all your fault, but what’s important- is what you do from here on out.”

Patrick tilted his head, involuntary confusion painting his face. She only smiled again, but her eyes burned into him seriously. “You can either drown in guilt- become a recluse, drink, overwork yourself, stop eating- basically, _destroy_ yourself-”

 

She put a gentle hand on his shoulder. It reminded Patrick of when his mother comforted him after a bad day at school.

 

“Or you thrive.” She whispered softly, before looking up at the sky again, and exhaling deeply. “...You do the best with what you have, and you fix things as much as you can.”

Her hands moved back into her lap, and faltered for a moment, before she stood, shivering lightly and rubbing her arms. She looked down at Patrick again; Her eyes were teary now, and a ghost of a smile was playing on her lips.

“It’s your choice...I didn’t make the right one at first...with my, _friend_ , but I-" She exhaled deeply, holding back her tears. "I fixed my mistake.”

She stared at him seriously, and a sad smile still flickered on her lips again. “I know it hurts, but you’re a _formidable_ doctor, Patrick. You can fix this, I know you can.”

 

Patrick was frozen, mind buzzing with the words.

 

“Goodnight, Patrick. Get some sleep.”

And with that she left, footsteps crunching in the freshly-fallen soft, powdery snow. Patrick stared ahead, not really looking at anything now. His eyes were glazed over in something between thought, shock, and fear.

 

_'you’re a formidable doctor, Patrick. You can fix this, I know you can.'_

 

How was he supposed to fix a broken spine?

 

Seriously, how the fuck was he supposed to do that?

 

Oh god- he couldn't-

 

His brow furrowed suddenly, and he stood decidedly, shoving his hands into his pockets and, with one last nod at the cathedral, he turned and strode away to the hotel. Anger burned through him. How the fuck as he supposed to fix Pete's back? Why was it up to him? Why couldn't someone else do it? Fuck, he was mad. Mad at everything: He was mad at Pete, at De Rossi, at Borisova, at the stadium, at the whole fucking sport of soccer- and he was _really fucking mad_ at the Russian weather.

 

...But, although his mind had instisted on taking things _literally_ , Patrick's heart knew that wasn't what Borisova had meant.

 

Fix Pete.

 

Not fix Pete's _spine_.

 

 

Fix _Pete_.

 

 

 

 


	9. Bend The Metal Into Shapes That You Know

 

‘ _Soccer player- Pete Wentz was injured in the World Cup semi-final against Italy a week ago. The injury was caused by a struggle on the pitch between Wentz, and Italian midfielder- De Rossi._

_Wentz cleared the ball, but was apparently kicked in the back by De Rossi- who then proceeded to step on Wentz’s back as he ran to take possession of the ball_ ’

 

Patrick remembered that. He hadn't seen it clearly on the pitch, but when he saw the replay- he had practically watched Pete’s spine twist under De Rossi’s boot.

 

‘ _The striker was seen to by US team doctors, and was sent home to LA that night. There is still no official news on Wentz’s condition, but the US board has promised that everything will be announced after the World Cup final. There had been worries about the morale of the rest of the US team, and the worries were proven valid, as the US team lost-_ ’

 

Patrick shut off his phone, and tossed it onto the tray table, leaning back in his seat. He stared upwards, watching the dim, plane signals telling everyone that it was fine to move around. Patrick felt guilty. He had for days, and he was pretty sure he would for years.

Quickly after the gravity situation had settled in, Patrick had started panicking about Declan; He’d left his son at Pete’s house again, but Pete was going home early- and it wouldn’t be the best situation for Declan to be in, and Patrick was worried he'd be in the way. However, all his worries had been put aside- although new ones had already sprung back up, when Joe had told him something after the morning of the accident.

 

_“Declan’s at my house- Marie just texted me, and for some reason, Meagan just...dropped him off there…?”_

 

Meagan was probably sick of dealing with three kids- two who weren’t even hers, one who wasn’t even Pete’s. Patrick had instantly felt worried and apologetic to Joe- but the man had assured him:

 

_“Dude, calm down, it’s fine! Marie doesn’t mind, Ruby and Declan get along well- Seriously, don’t sweat it.”_

 

Patrick had been unspeakably grateful towards Joe. Finding decent people was harder than it should be, and Patrick felt lucky he’d found so many in his lifetime.

 

 

The US had lost the final.

It had been against Spain- who had beaten France in their semi-finals match with 4-2. And the Spaniards had left their last match full of morale.

...Whereas, the US had conceded two goals in the last minutes against Italy, and they’d left the pitch anxious and stressed- between the two goals, and their worry for Pete.

They’d managed to retain their dignity in the final, however. Spain had only won 2-1, finally scoring their winning goal in the last few seconds.

While the loss of the cup was painful for them, the players seemed excited to get home more than anything; It was a mix of missing their families, their own homes, and wanting to know how Pete was- since the US soccer board refused to release any information until after the Cup’s completion; The idea had been not to distract the players, but it hadn’t paid off that well, and Patrick couldn’t help but wonder what would’ve happened if they _had_ told everyone. They might have actually won, but as Brendon, and many others had insisted several times: They didn’t want to win without _Pete_. He’d worked too hard for it. He deserved it.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“Declan and Ruby are still at school.”

 

Joe grunted while furrowing his brow at the text on his phone, as he pulled his suitcase from the baggage carousel. “You can pick him up at school, right?” Patrick nodded, grabbing his own luggage with a heavy exhale as he bit the inside of his cheek. “Thanks again Joe.”

Joe shook his head, putting a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “Seriously, no worries, dude. See ya soon.”

Patrick smiled and nodded, “See you Monday.” Joe grinned and nodded, and they started moving towards the exit.

 

 

 

 

Patrick shoved his suitcase into his trunk, before ducking into his car. He sat for a moment, hands resting on the steering wheel and mind racing.

He checked his watch- _8:23_. There were still seven hours for school to be over, and he didn’t really want to go home- he'd just feel useless. Patrick exhaled sharply, nodding to himself decisively and starting the car, feeling it jolt to life with a growl. He pulled out of the airport parking lot, nodding to himself the whole time.

He was going to 127 West Santa Clara avenue.

He had to see Pete.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Patrick stood at the front door nervously, glancing around one last time before knocking. Minutes passed, and soon enough, Patrick heard faint arguing behind the door. He strained to listen, moving his head closer, and _just about_ making out the words.

 

“Dad said not to open it!”

 

“But I know him! It's Dr. Stumph!- He’s Declan’s dad! I-”

 

“We’re _not_ opening it _Saint_."

 

Patrick panicked a little- shit they weren't going to open the door. And oh fuck- why had Pete told them not to open up? Was it just for Patrick? Or was it for anyone who knocked at the door? Oh no, was he secluding himself? Was he isolating himself- oh shit- Patrick knocked again, and more frantically this time, all while speaking up. “Uh- h-hey, I’m your dad’s doctor, I-I’m here to check on him.”

 

There was more arguing, before there was a yell, and the door abruptly swung open. Much to Patrick’s surprise, Saint crashed into him, wrapping his arms around Patrick, and sniffling lightly. Patrick quickly kneeled down to his level, before the boy launched into him again, arms around his neck this time. Patrick rubbed his back, trying to calm him down, whilst looking up at Bronx- who was suspiciously peering out from behind the door.

“Calm down, buddy, it’s okay.” Patrick smiled sadly as he watched Saint wipe his eyes, the boy stared up with a trembling lip while nodding. “Are you okay, Saint? Why aren’t you guys at school?”

 

“We haven’t been to schoo-”

 

“That’s enough, Saint.” Bronx growled, marching over and grabbing his brother by the arm. “Dad said-”

 

And that’s when Saint broke.

 

 

“WE HAVEN’T SEEN DAD FOR A WEEK.”

 

 

Saint pulled his arm back viciously, trembling in his spot, while his furious eyes started tearing up again. Patrick stepped forwards again, placing a gentle hand on Saint's shoulder. “W-What do mean, Saint? You haven’t seen him-?”

 

“He’s locked inside.” Saint gestured to the house, and Patrick’s expression contorted into confusion. Ignoring his older brother’s protests, Saint grabbed Patrick’s hand and pulled him inside, marching up the stairs.

 

 

He led the man to a familiar large, fibreglass door, and Patrick suddenly realized that he remembered it from his first check-up on Pete, all that time ago; He’d been lying in bed, still asleep, and Patrick had had to wake him up- if he remembered correctly, he'd _poked_ Pete awake.

 

“ _Saint_ , _stop it!_ Dad-”

 

“He’s in here.”

 

The three froze, and Patrick slowly turned his gaze from the boy, to the door. He chewed his lip, and knocked softly.

 

“ _We’ve_ been knocking for a week, he’s not gonna answer you.”

 

Patrick turned to Bronx, brow furrowed in concern. “W-Where’s Meagan?”

 

“She left.” Saint mumbled sadly, gaze fixed on the floor before he looked up at Patrick again. “We heard yelling, and then she jus’ left.”

 

Everything inside Patrick writhed.

 

Pete had broken too- he’d told her.

 

Patrick nodded slowly, before realization set in. “Have you been alone? For a whole week?”

Bronx looked stubborn and merely crossed his arms, glaring at the floor, but Saint nodded, tears threatening to spill from the brim of his eyes.

Patrick gave a stuttered exhale, “A-Are you both okay?- I mean, like, are you hungry, or hurt, or-”

 

“No. We’re fine.”

 

Patrick wasn’t sure if Bronx was being truthful, so he looked towards Saint with accepting, yet pressing eyes. The little boy said nothing, so Patrick assumed Bronx was telling the truth. He was glad they hadn’t been starving- but being by _yourself_ for a whole _week_ -god, _as a kid_ , knowing your parent is just behind a door- it must've been awful.

Patrick stared back at the door helplessly, before determination crawled onto his features. He had to get Pete out of there.

 

 

Patrick turned back to the kids, crouching onto a knee and whispering. “Do you guys have spare keys?” Saint nodded eagerly with a grin, but Bronx only looked angry. Patrick stared at the older boy for a second, before motioning him closer, and much to his surprise, the boy stepped forwards.

 

“I just want to help your dad, Bronx. I promise, I’m not gonna do anything bad.”

Bronx’s eyes softened for a beat, and he nodded slightly, despite the furrowed brow. “...I’ll show you the keys.”

 

 

Bronx led Patrick down the stairs, and to the study, where the boy instantly darted towards the desk, crouching down. Patrick stepped forwards as he watched Bronx retrieving a small, metal box, locked with a keypad. He put it on the desk, and shifted away, leaning his head on his hands. Saint leaned his arms on the desk too, watching as Patrick carefully picked up the box, squinting at the keypad.

He was looking for any worn pads to figure out the key numbers- but they all looked perfectly painted. He sighed. _Heavily_ \- Before a thought suddenly popped into his head;

Patrick had a safe at home too- it was filled with passports, important records, cash, and basically, anything of value. And the pin on that safe was 1310. The 13th of October: Declan’s birthday.

 

_Think like a dad._

 

 

“Hey, when were you kids born?”

 

 

Bronx looked confused, but responded anyway. “...20th of November.”

Saint looked nowhere near as suspicious, and only beamed, “20th of August!”

 

20, 11

20, 8

 

The pin had seven digits.

 

Patrick smiled sadly, and punched in the numbers, watching the box click open.

The two boys looked at Patrick as though he were a magician and stared with slack jaws and wide eyes as Patrick rooted through the keys, brow furrowed. He sighed, before passing the box to Bronx, “D’you which one it is?”

Bronx nodded, finally tearing his amazed gaze away from Patrick and rooting through the box himself for a second, before holding up a metal key. “This one.”

Patrick took it and nodded with an exhale; He didn’t know what he’d find in that room, and it scared him.

 

In case it was something... _bad_ \- he couldn’t let the boys see it.

  
  
“...Can you two go...play…just for a little while…?”

 

Saint seemed about to protest, but Patrick could tell Bronx was clever for his age. The older boy’s eyes flash with panic, but he nodded, grabbing his brother by the arm and marching out of the study wordlessly. Patrick exhaled, and moved back to the stairs, smiling gratefully when only a moment later, he heard the telltale sounds of video games from the living room.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Patrick hovered in front of the door for a second, key in hand.

Oh god, he didn’t know what he was gonna walk in on. What if Pete was... _dead_ …? What if he’d _killed himself_ \- oh, _god forbid_.

Patrick furrowed his brow, he couldn’t be a coward any longer. He shoved the key into the door. He had to be brave. He twisted the key. For Pete, for his kids, for himself. He pushed the door open gently.

 

Patrick stepped inside, eyes wide but brow furrowed. He couldn’t help gasping, before sighing in relief.

 

 

He wasn’t dead.

 

 

Pete was hunched over in a wheelchair, hands clasped together and pressed to his mouth. He was wearing a baggy hoodie, and the hood was hiding his face completely. He didn’t flinch, or turn at the sound of Patrick entering, because his gaze was firmly locked on a TV screen, replaying the World Cup final.

 

Patrick closed the door behind him gently, hearing it click. “...Pete?”

 

No response.

 

Patrick glanced up at the screen, he watched Brendon being tackled and losing the ball to a Spanish defender, and he noticed Pete’s back jolt at the sight, and Patrick instantly knew.

 

Pete was blaming himself.

 

He blamed _himself_ for the US losing the final.

 

And he was torturing himself by rewatching the match, over and over and over again.

 

An entire week. Watching the same match.

 

 

 

Patrick stepped forwards gingerly, “Pete?”

 

No response.

 

“Pete, please- just-” Patrick sighed, he didn’t know what to say.

 

Biting his lip, he gingerly placed a gentle hand on Pete’s head, but he didn’t move. Patrick shifted Pete’s hood back, and moved to card the hand through his hair, but once again- _no response_ , just a tense shudder every time a player got tackled on the screen.

 

Patrick crouched down, hand still soothing through Pete’s hair, “Pete-”

 

 

“Just leave me alone.”

 

 

Relief. Relief that he had spoken, but pain at what he'd said. Pete’s voice sounded croaky, rough, and just plain tired. Patrick’s stomach twisted, and he shook his head softly- knowing that Pete could see it from the corner of his eye.

“No, I’m not gonna.” Patrick smiled weakly, trying to coax a reaction from Pete. “ _Contractually-obligated_ , remember?”

 

Pure silence, before Pete said something that made Patrick’s heart ache.

 

 

“I’m not a soccer player anymore.”

 

 

Patrick stifled a sharp exhale, but it came out shaky instead. He put a pale hand on Pete’s jaw, pulling the man to face him. Pete resisted for a moment, shoving his head away with a mutter of ‘ _Leave me alone_ ’- eyes still locked on the screen.

Patrick pulled again, more insistent this time, and for the first time in months- he finally met Pete’s eyes. Patrick knew his own eyes were watering, but he didn’t care.

 

 

“Yes you are.”

 

 

His fingers relaxed on Pete’s jaw, thumb caressing his cheek softly, while his other hand tenderly held the back of Pete’s head- fingers softly threaded with dyed strands. “You are.” Pete’s chest jolted with a silent sob, and he stared back at Patrick. Patrick could see so much in Pete’s eyes: fear, misery, anger, guilt, disappointment, remorse- he could see everything, and he knew Pete shouldn’t be feeling half the things he was. For starters, Pete had no reason to feel guilty.

 

“No, _I-I’m_ _not_.”

 

Patrick exhaled shakily, pulling Pete into his shoulder, and wrapping an arm around his shoulders, while the other stayed in his hair.

Pete didn't resist, and he started crying- all Patrick could do was hold him. He felt, and heard, the sobs into his shoulder. Painful, abrupt, miserable, furious sobs, would burst from Pete in random intervals, and Patrick knew he was still trying to hold back.

 

“I-It’s my f-fault, oh f-fuck- it’s my f-fault, Patrick-”

 

“No it’s not Pete. No it’s not.”

 

He felt Pete holding back his cries, and he could tell by the way his back jumped with strained gasps. Patrick moved his head back a little, until his mouth was over Pete’s ear.

 

“Pete?”

 

Pete’s voice was muffled against his shoulder.

 

“Y-Yeah?”

 

“Cry. _Just cry_.”

 

Pete panted for a few moments, before exploding into sobbing, to the point that he couldn’t control his breath properly.

Patrick watched his back shudder as Pete desperately choked on air, trying to get oxygen to his lungs between the pained cries. Pete’s hands fisted into the fabric of Patrick’s coat, arms hooked under Patrick’s and crossed over each other, gripping him as though the man were his only lifeline.

He burrowed his face further into the skin and sobbed like a child, not being able to stop or control himself. Patrick softly caressed the back of Pete’s neck as the older man started making noises, noises between agonizing screams and frustrated cries- all muffled by Patrick’s clothes and skin. Pete trembled all over with every noise- knuckles white, the veins in his throat pressing against the skin and face only shoving deeper into the crook of Patrick’s neck, all while sounding as though he was drowning.

Patrick stared ahead, hands still continuing their soothing ministrations as his mind drifted elsewhere. He had to fix this, he had to fix Pete. He couldn’t leave him like this, he’d destroy himself for sure.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

It felt like an hour had passed when Pete had finally pulled back- eyes puffy and red, mouth swollen and wet from sobbing, and nose sniffing periodically.

Patrick smiled softly, pulling his hands back, before Pete darted out to catch his right hand. He sniffed again, back jolting with a quiet gasp as he threaded his fingers with Patrick’s, squeezing as though he was holding on for dear life.

“Please don’t lea-...I-” Pete shuddered, not quite being able to bring himself to look at Patrick in the eyes. Patrick understood instantly, and leaned forwards, taking his left hand to the side of Pete’s face and running his thumb over the cheekbone softly. He cupped Pete’s cheek, lifting the older man’s head slightly, forcing him to make eye-contact. Patrick’s eyes were wide and assuring, and Pete’s were red, trusting, but still pleading.

 

“I’m not gonna leave. I promise.”

 

Pete nodded, biting the inside of his cheek and moving his eyes down again, all while trying to hold back more tears. Patrick could see them brimming at the edges of his eyes, and he moved closer again, making Pete gratefully press his forehead to Patrick’s shoulder, breathing deeply. Patrick ran a hand through Pete's hair again, the other hovering over Pete’s spine- he wasn’t going to touch that just yet.

 

“It’s okay, Pete. It’s all gonna be fine, I promise.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Two hours, and Pete had finally calmed down- and he’d even let Patrick shut off the TV, despite the protesting look in his eyes.

 

“Pete, have you gone to hospital?”

 

They hadn’t been able to give him a real diagnosis in Russia, it had only been a prediction- sure, it was a _well made_ prediction, but without a full body scan or thorough, _lucid_ testing- they couldn’t be sure.

“Yeah, they took me to UCLA medical, and I-uh...I was there, for like...a day.”

Patrick nodded, eyes wide as he stared at Pete seriously. “Okay, good- now, this is important, and I know you might not, like, remember it very well- but, _did they give you some sheets of paper at the end?_ ”

Pete furrowed his brow, eyes glazing over in thought, before nodding slowly, and soon enough, the slow nods got more sure of themselves. “Yes, they did! It was uh... _shit_ , Meagan took them.” He chewed on his lip, “...They were on the counter in the kitchen, last I saw them.”

Patrick nodded with an assuring smile. “I’ll be right back, okay?” Pete nodded back, a smile flickering at the corners of his lips.

 

 

Patrick practically ran downstairs, stumbling to a stop in the kitchen and looking around on the counters desperately, before-

 

“Is dad okay?!”

 

Patrick swivelled to see Bronx, eyes wide and worried, with Saint holding onto his arm- looking just as petrified. “Y-Yeah, he’s fine buddy-” The boys made a move to run upstairs- “WAIT- w-wait a sec.”

The boys stopped questioningly, but Patrick could see impatience in Bronx’s eyes. “Did Meagan leave a piece of paper here,” He motioned at the kitchen, “-the day your dad came back from hospital?”

Bronx nodded with annoyed eyes, while Saint’s nods were eager, and frantic. He darted from behind his older brother, and opened a cupboard, starting to root around in the pots and pans. Patrick was confused and was about to tell him that it was okay, he could just go to the hospital and ask-

 

“Here!”

 

Saint held up a diagnosis sheet and prescription sheet- both stapled together. Patrick took it and read through frantically.

 

“T6 injury – _negative_ …no indication of paraplegia…severe scoliosis...bent at 42°...”

Patrick nodded, a smile slowly working its way onto his face. Pete wasn’t paralysed, his spine was twisted but- but that could be _cured_.

He looked up from the sheet at two confused faces, and he grinned and exhaled with relief, about to put their worries to rest when- his brow furrowed.

 

“Saint, why was this in the cupboard?”

 

The little boy shifted nervously, before smiling up anxiously. “I uh- M-Meagan rips things up when she gets mad...so I, hid it...when I heard them yelling.”

 

_Good thinking kid._

 

Patrick nodded with a smile, “You did well.” Saint beamed proudly and Patrick exhaled with a smile again, “Right, d’you wanna go see your dad?”

 

Bronx and Saint stared up with wide, worried eyes, and nodded frantically. Patrick moved towards the stairs, leading them with a motion of his head, but the boys shot past him in an instant- practically running upstairs on all fours, stumbling to rush up the steps, and Patrick would often find himself catching them as they almost took heavy falls.

 

As soon as they were in the hallway, the boys bolted forwards, and they reached the door long before Patrick did. They skidded to a stop in front of the- finally, open door, and Patrick watched their faces break into sobs and grins simultaneously, as the pelted forwards.

He heard muffled crying and stepped over into the room, seeing both boys desperately burrowing themselves against their father’s shoulders and chest, sobbing quietly. Pete’s eyes were washed in guilt, but he was smiling softly, hands buried in his children’s hair as he spoke softly to his sons, trying his best to calm them down.  
Pete smiled gently at Patrick, and faintly motioned for him to come in. Patrick smiled back, holding back waves of relief and joy.

 

“Pete, I have some good news for you.”

 

The older man’s eyes widened a fraction, and relief flooded in to mix with the guilt. Bronx’s ears pricked up and he turned, cheek still smushed against his father’s shoulder- eyes wide and red, nose sniffling, and tears running down his cheeks. Saint didn’t look up, he was cuddled into his dad’s chest, and his hands were fisted into Pete’s sweater.

 

“W-Well, it’s a little _medical_...but-” He smiled nervously at both sets of expectant, and hopeful whiskey-brown eyes. “But, basically,” Patrick broke out into a grin, feeling tears prickling his eyes, but he just managed to hold them back desperately.

 

“You’re gonna be okay. You’ll walk again, you’ll play again- you’re gonna be okay.”

 

Pete shuddered in relief at the words, before covering his eyes with one of his palms. Bronx hopped away from his father- and Saint took that opportunity to hug his dad fully, and Pete reciprocated fully, wrapping his arms around Saint.

The older boy stepped over to Patrick gingerly, and sniffled for a second- before crashing into him, arms tight around his neck, and head dropping into his shoulder.

Patrick jolted, and he was taken by surprise, but he quickly hugged the boy back, hearing Bronx's sniffles turning into quiet whimpers. “Hey, it’s okay, buddy, it’s okay.”

He heard a muffled ‘ _thank you_ ’ against his shoulder as Bronx pulled back, wiping his eyes on his sleeve. Patrick smiled softly, and a ghost of a smile flickered on Bronx’s mouth, before he bolted back to Pete, climbing up and burying his face in his dad’s shoulder again.

 

Pete smiled, tired and on the verge of tears. “Thank you, Patrick. Thank you so much.” Patrick smiled sadly and stood, “You’re welcome, but I haven’t- I haven’t _done_ anything yet.”

Pete gave him a smile that told him everything. Yes, he had 'done something' already. Sure Pete wasn’t up and walking around yet, but- he’d coaxed him out of his trance, he’d made sure his kids were okay, he’d, seemingly, been the first person to actually show up and help.

 

Patrick had so many questions, so many things he wanted- no, _needed_ to know, but as he watched Pete’s sons whimper and burrow themselves further into their dad's shoulders, coaxing a quiet laugh from the man- he knew the questions could wait.

 

“I’m gonna go to UCLA for a little while, I need to ask ‘em for some of your files- you’ll be okay here?”

Pete nodded with a tired smile, and a familiar, faint mirth glinted in his eyes. “We’ll be fine, I’m not _totally_ useless y’know.”

Patrick laughed quietly, refraining from making a sarcastic comeback, and he nodded, “I’ll be back in about...half an hour, okay?”

Pete nodded again, although something akin to hesitation flickered on his face.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Turns out getting records wasn’t as easy as Patrick had hoped.

At first, he’d almost been kicked out, when he'd shown up to reception and asked for Pete Wentz's records- but after providing, practically, _every_ piece of ID he owned, and waiting for the hospital to call LA Galaxy to find out if Patrick was telling the truth about being Wentz's doctor- he was finally allowed to have Pete’s records.

 

He was sat in a waiting room, shuffling his shoes and leaning back into his seat. He could hardly believe how lucky Pete had been, no paraplegia- just scoliosis. Patrick tilted his head back and exhaled deeply, a small smile drifting onto his lips.

He felt calm for the first time in a long time, and while he knew there was work ahead- he was relaxed. It was gonna be okay. Pete was gonna walk again. Pete was gonna _play_ again. It was gonna be a long, painful process but...Pete was gonna stay strong- they both were. It was all gonna be f-

 

 

“Dr. Patrick Stumph?”

 

 

Patrick’s head shot down from against the wall to see a nurse stood in the waiting room, holding a clipboard, covered with pages listing names in one hand, and a large, thick binder in the other.

Patrick stood, and walked towards her. She handed him the folder with wide eyes, before whispering. “I hope this helps.” Patrick was confused for a beat, before he noticed her nails- intricately painted like the American flag. He smiled softly, nodding gently, “It will, thank you.”

She smiled cheerily and nodded, before moving back through a door, and heading back into the depths of the hospital. Patrick slung his bag onto his shoulder, and with the binder firmly in his other hand, he made his way to the exit.

He knew nobody blamed Pete. He knew they loved him- he was a bonafide national treasure...And now it was up to Patrick to fix him.

 

_No pressure._

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Patrick sat in a armchair, reading through the binder with interest. It had everything- _all_ of Pete’s records. From the day he was born- listing the date, his weight, his parents, the hospital- to his latest visit- x-rays, reports, severity. Seriously- _everything_ \- from vaccinations, to visits to the dentist, to broken legs, and to fractured ribs, and Patrick was learning a lot.

The redhead rubbed at his temple, grimacing at the newest x-ray of Pete’s back; The spine was twisted in an ‘S’ shape- completely visible beneath the skin. Patrick read through the verbose report, while jotting down simple notes in his notebook instead: The spine was bent at 42°, there was a slight rib hump- but it was tiny, thankfully. One shoulder blade was a little higher than the other- but that could easily be corrected. And, admiringly- his shoulders, head and hips had remained straight, they hadn’t tilted, and neither had his belly button. Nothing had been pulled off center- nothing was unfixable.

 

Patrick scratched behind his ear- a nervous habit that he still hadn’t shaken. He suspected he’d have peeled away the skin by the end of this ordeal.

 

But despite everything- Patrick felt optimistic.

Sure, he also knew there would be horrible side effects from the injury- and _even more_ from the _treatment_.

And as for the treatment itself, Pete had two options- natural: long, and painful, but no surgery. Or unnatural: Short, quick, but lasting scars and a need to take medication for the rest of his life.

Either treatment would hurt like hell but they were preferable to being stuck in a wheelchair- and the symptoms of leaving it as it was- _god_ : clumsiness, he’d become more accident prone, he’d get fatigued easily, headaches, pain in his rib cage, lower back, between his shoulder blades.

 

 

He needed to talk to Pete but-

 

 

Patrick smiled softly; Bronx and Saint were cuddled up in their father’s chest, smiling and laughing periodically at the cartoons on the TV. Pete had an easy smile on his face, head leaning on his fist- but his eyes were on Patrick.

He raised his eyebrows inquisitively, and Patrick motioned towards the binder- hoping Pete got the message. The older man nodded and squinted, seemingly thinking of a way to distract his kids; They had been exceptionally clingy all day, and they seemed to have no intention to stop.

Pete’s eyes suddenly lit up, and he motioned his head at his watch. Patrick furrowed his brow for a moment before-

 

3:17pm

 

Declan would be leaving school in less than twenty minutes.

 

Declan.

 

Declan was a great distraction.

 

Patrick smiled at Pete knowingly, and Pete smiled back slyly. The redhead stood, placing the binder on the dresser, and he made a move to grab his bag to leave when-

 

“Where are you going?”

 

Patrick raised his eyebrows at the small, pitiful voice, and glanced towards Saint- who was sat up attentively, eyes wide. Bronx looked similar, only his knuckles were white around Pete’s hand.

 

“I have to go get Declan from school.”

 

“But you’ll come back right?”

 

Patrick smiled, holding back a laugh and a fond glare at Pete’s quiet laughter. “Yeah buddy, I’ll be back in a little while.”

 

“Pinky promise?”

 

Saint held out his pinky and Patrick huffed in amusement. He linked his own pinky with Saint’s. “Promise.”

 

The boys looked satisfied and slouched back into their dad as Patrick left the room. The redhead was at the foot of the stairs when he heard a yell from the top of the stairs.

 

“Can you bring Declan here?!”

 

Patrick looked up and grinned; Saint was hanging over the banister, eyes wide and hands gripping the wood. “Yeah, buddy. I’ll bring him.”

The boy nodded with a grin and bolted out of view, making Patrick laugh quietly and step outside. He looked out at the view for a second, sighing deeply, before ducking into his car.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“DAD!”

 

Declan bolted towards him, and Patrick dropped to a knee, bracing for impact. The boy crashed into him with a fierce hug, almost knocking his forehead into Patrick’s mouth, but his dad dodged the hit, and just about kept his balance. Declan buried his face his father’s shoulder, and Patrick smiled softly, wrapping his arms around the boy, and carding a hand through his son’s hair.

“Hey, buddy.”

Declan pulled back with a grin, and pressed his hands on his dad’s collarbones, while staring with squinty eyes- almost examining him. Patrick wondered if he thought that Patrick was an impostor for his father- Declan certainly had enough imagination to dream _that_ one up. The boy’s grin broadened and he turned his head to wipe his teary eyes on his shoulder. “I missed you dad.” Patrick stood and ruffled Declan’s hair. “I missed you too Dec.”

 

 

 

 

As Declan clicked his seatbelt on, Patrick drove away, heading back to Pete’s house, and glancing at the boy every now and then. “H-How was it at Saint’s house?”

 

“Great!” Declan’s eyes suddenly dimmed a little, “...But, Meagan made me leave yesterday. I-I dunno what I did, but-”

 

“I don’t think you did anything buddy.” Patrick assured him, and he smiled a little when he saw relief flash through his son’s eyes. “...She- and uh- _all of them_ , are having a...hard time, right now.”

Declan nodded, before shock and desperation flooded his face, and he gasped a little, leaning towards his dad with wide eyes.

 

 

“What happened to Wentz dad?”

 

 

Patrick swallowed and stared out of the windscreen, he exhaled shakily before smiling sadly at his son. “H-He got…hurt, Dec.”

 

The boy looked worried, eyes wider than before and staring at his father intently, as though he wanted to know more. But Patrick didn’t want to- _and was not going to_ , tell him all the horrifying details, and instead, he decided to distract the boy.

 

“Hey, Dec?”

 

“Yeah dad?”

 

Patrick chewed his lip for a second, before making a turn. “I-uh, I’m gonna need your help, in a little while.”

 

Declan cocked his head, “What with?”

 

Patrick exhaled quietly, reading the sign ‘ _West Santa Clara_ ’ as the road steadily became steeper, and trees began enclosing its sides. “When we-uh...” Patrick sighed, knuckles going pure white around the steering wheel. “We’re going to Saint’s house, again, ‘c-cause I need to talk to Pet- _Wentz_. I need to talk to Wentz, okay?”

He looked down at his son with wide eyes, nodding slightly and hoping Declan hadn’t noticed his stutters or slip-ups.

 

“Okay, so what do need _me_ to do?”

 

Patrick’s gaze fixed back on the road ahead of them, “I need you to...to go talk to Saint and Bronx for a little while, okay?” Declan tilted his head, eyes squinted in curiosity. “Go play soccer together, or, or, play some Xbox, okay? Just- I need to talk to Pe- to _Wentz_ , in private.”

 

Declan nodded this time, looking a lot more sure of himself, “Okay dad.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Declan was a _great_ distraction, and Patrick was very proud.

 

He’d somehow managed to coax the Wentz boys away from their father.

Patrick had assumed Saint would come easily- and he was right, the moment Declan stepped through the door, Saint had leapt away from Pete and had crashed into the redheaded boy.

Patrick had noticed Declan’s quick horrified flash at seeing the wheelchair, but Patrick raised his son to be polite- and he’d always made an effort to explain things Declan didn't understand.

 

When Declan was younger- around two or three, he’d be easily spooked by people with prosthetics, people in wheelchairs, or people with scars- just about anyone who had been injured in some way. And anytime he saw someone like that, he'd get scared, skittish and shy- and later on, he’d always ask his dad- ‘ _What’s wrong with them?_ ’ and Patrick would sit him down and explain. He’d explain it in a way that Declan could understand, in a way that made his eyes soften in respect and sympathy.

 

Declan didn’t stare anymore.

 

Patrick had been nervous about Bronx though; Declan had only met him once, and he wasn’t sure if the older boy- who Patrick was pretty sure, _completely understood_ the gravity of the situation, would come along easily.

And just as Patrick thought- Bronx understood the situation...But he hadn't reacted the way Patrick had imagined, and Patrick knew, that Bronx knew- that Declan was a distraction, just so the adults could talk plainly, without explaining and sugarcoating things for kids.

Bronx had hopped away from his dad with no arguments, and had led the younger boys downstairs, with the offer of: ‘ _Let’s go play soccer, I learnt loads of stuff in Brazil- I’ll teach you-_ ’

 

 

 

 

 

And, just like that Pete and Patrick had been left alone.

They smiled timidly at each other, before Patrick cleared his throat and pulled a chair closer, before sitting down. He looked up at Pete with assuring eyes that seemed to calm the older man.

“So, it _is_ curable. And there are two ways to cure it.”

Pete tilted his head to the side, and Patrick let himself smile at the gesture. “What are they?”

Patrick nodded down at his notepad, where he’d been jotting down important details of Pete’s health over the years; Things that could affect his healing process now- for better or for worse.

 

“Well, the first option is the traditional route.”

 

Pete visibly winced at that, traditional usually meant outdated- and painful. “O-Okay, what’s that?”

Patrick grimaced a little- this was _not_ his preferred option.

 

“So, it’s called ‘bracing and surgery’; You wear a brace for a little while, let it straighten your spine a little, and then we operate, we- uh...”

 

_Oh yeah, we cut you in half and poke around like we’re playing fucking ‘Hasbro Operation’._

 

Pete looked worried, but his eyes were wide, and he nodded gently, insisting Patrick continue.

The redhead bit his lip and exhaled deeply.

 

“We, uh- well, it’s called ‘ _spinal fusion_ ’ surgery. We uh- we...fuse two of your vertebrae together, and uh-”

 

Patrick grimaced at Pete’s horrified expression, but sighed and continued.

 

“They kinda, make a... _bridge_ , and, well- it’s a _graft_ \- so it helps a new bone grow. We also put... _metal rods_...in there, we kinda angle ‘em to keep the spine straight-”

 

 

Pete looked like he was gonna pass out.

 

 

“I-It’s major surgery- lasts seven hours, and you’ll be in hospital for a while, they’ll discharge you about a month after, and then it’s a few months of heavy recovery at home.”

 

Pete shuddered and leaned back in the wheelchair, “W-What’s uh- w-what’s the _other_ option?”

 

Patrick exhaled in relief and grinned. _Good choice Pete_.

 

“It’s the ‘ _Clear Institute_ ’ method, and it’s totally natural.”

 

Pete relaxed and already looked ready to make his choice.

 

“Now, it’s not _painless_...and it’s harder- and longer, actually, but- but you’ll almost be exactly as you were before.”

 

Pete’s jaw went a little slack, his eyes widened and he leaned forwards, “T-The same? As _before?_ ”

Patrick nodded with a smile, before it melted away a little as he read through the process bullet points on his note pad.

 

“Now, once again- it’s not easy. I’m not gonna like- _dance around it_ , I’m just gonna tell you what needs to happen, okay?”

 

Pete nodded, furrowing his brow, while leaning up straight- bracing himself for the, not doubt- _gruesome_ details.

 

“Okay. Well, first we inject nutrients into the bones and the vertebrae- it’ll hurt like a bitch, but it’ll make your spine a lot more flexible. It’ll also relax your discs, tendons- all that stuff.”

  
  
Pete was already grimacing, but he looked determined to keep listening. Patrick smiled sympathetically- he knew Pete hated needles.

 

“Secondly, we’ll adjust your spine externally-”

 

“No metal rods then?”

 

Patrick huffed a laugh, grinning softly. “No metal rods. Just a lot of poking.”

 

Pete visibly winced, but gestured for Patrick to continue as he ran a hand over his face.

 

“I’ll have to...make _41_ _measurements_ , and calculate... _23 angles_ -”

 

“By poking at me?!”

 

“No, I’ll use the x-ray, just- chill out.”

 

“Oh _thank god_.”

 

“Finally, we’ll ‘ _re-educate_ ’ your brain to hold the new position-”

 

“-Do I have to go class or something?”

 

“...What?”

 

“Like, _brain_ class…?”

 

Patrick dissolved into laughter, pressing a hand over his eyes, and trying to calm himself down. He glanced up to watch Pete’s angry facade melt away into soft laughs.

 

“No brain class then?”

 

“No brain class, Pete.”

 

“Cool, no brain _homework_ then.”

 

“For god’s sake- no Pete.” Patrick managed to calm his laughter, and exhaled steadily to keep himself serious. Talking about treatments was serious- not funny- _oh goddamnit Pete_.

 

“- _Shush_ -”

 

Patrick cut off Pete’s next witty remark with an accusing point of his finger, but he still trembled with quiet laughter and struggled to bite back a smile.

 

“Okay.” He exhaled deeply. “FINALLY-”

 

Pete laughed loudly at the tone, and Patrick shook away his own laughter. Goddamn Pete for having infectious laughter.

 

“We re-educate your brain with spinal weighting, isometric spinal stuff for your head, your shoulders and your hips- _Don’t you dare_.”

 

He stared accusingly at Pete’s mischievous grin at the mention of ‘ _hips_ ’, but the older man only ran his hand through his hair and motioned for Patrick to keep speaking, all while neglecting to make the dirty joke Patrick knew he'd been dying to make.

 

“Anyway, that’ll reprogramme your nerves- you’ll need check-ups after but...the corrections will become permanent.”

 

“And I’ll go back to how I was before?”

 

“99.9% chance, yes.”

 

Pete furrowed his brow dramatically, mouth twisting into a sarcastic pout. “...I don’t know if I like that 0.01%...”

  
Patrick laughed again, head tilting back in his chair, “Don’t be an idiot.”

Pete joined the laughter, and nodded. “Okay, okay, so anything else? Am I gonna get stood on or something?”

 

“...What?”

 

“...Y’know, like those people who stand on backs- to like, _fix_ ‘em?”

 

Patrick shook his head, eyes wide and mouth open in bewilderment. “ _No_ , that would probably shatter your spine- not a great idea.”

 

Pete nodded thoughtfully, just as Patrick’s eyes lit up with a thought. “Wait, I forgot...” He flipped through his notebook, before- “Ah-hah!” He scanned the page, eyes moving back and forth as he read over the lines, before snapping up to look at Pete- making the older man jolt at the suddenness.

 

“There are benefits!”

 

“To having someone stand on my back…?”

 

“Ugh- No- _goddamnit_ \- no, there are benefits of the _natural_ treatment.”

 

Pete cocked his head, “Oh? What are they?- Oh, do I get to grow _wings_ or something?- That’d be so _fuckin’_ _cool_ -”

 

“No, Pete.”

 

“...You really enjoy crushing my dreams don’t you?”

 

“Pete.”

 

“...Go on then.”

 

Patrick couldn't help grinning and huffing in amusement at Pete’s remarks, before reading over his notebook one last time. “After the treatment is over, you’ll have more lung capacity- more room for your organs, and everything.”

 

“Cool, it’ll get less cramped in there.”

 

“-You’ll have more- _general energy_.”

 

“Okay, that’s great too- More stamina for fuc-”

 

“-Don’t you dare.”

 

“Yes sir.”

 

“You’ll have a higher pain threshold- so like, more _resistance_ to pain-”

 

“-Nice, I’m gonna be fuckin’ _batman_.”

 

“Pete, I swear-”

 

“-Don’t you tell me that it wouldn’t be _awesome_.”

 

“Whatever.”

 

“Liar.”

 

“-You’ll have a higher life expectancy too-”

 

“Oh my god, that’s fuckin’ awesome- am I gonna reach like _one thousand_ and-”

 

“Well, that’s a _little_ on the dramatic side- but yeah, you’ll probably naturally reach your late nineties.”

 

“Holy shit, dude, that’s awesome- we’re doing the second one.”

 

Patrick nodded, completely relieved- he really hadn't wanted the surgery route; He’d seen people stuck on mountains of medication after it, and he just _knew_ some of them would affect Pete’s career. “So, I can do it myself, but I’ll have to come over everyday- so if you prefer, I could alternate with doctors from UCLA-”

 

 

“I want you to do it.”

 

 

Pete’s eyes were suddenly serious, and extremely insistent. Patrick could only nod and give a small smile. “Okay, so- I’ll come over after work, and uh- I’ll bring Declan, i-if that’s okay?- And then we’ll leave at around-”

 

 

“Move in.”

 

 

Patrick’s eyes widened, and he gaped at Pete, mouth opening and closing like a fish- he really didn’t know what to say.

  
“I mean, Meagan’s... _gone_ , and uh- I mean, I have a lot of spare rooms. And like, if you- if you’re gonna be here _all day_ , you might as well- and I don’t mind Declan at all- seriously, you gotta stop with that- your kid’s great, you did a hell of a good job by yourself.”

 

A sad smile flickered on Patrick’s lips, and he found himself holding back tears. No one had ever told him that- in fact people often told him the opposite, making passive agressive remarks about Declan not having a female figure in his life. He’d always been terrified he’d screwed Declan up- but, oh god, it was comforting to hear that he’d done a good job.

 

“And I know you don’t like the cliff-”

 

Pete grinned, tilting his head, “But I swear, it’s _not_ gonna be a problem- the kids stay away from it, there’s not gonna be a fuckin’ earthquake, or something- I promise, it’ll be fine.”

 

Patrick stared for a moment. Pete had really thought of everything.

 

The procedure was going to be long- and hard, and it _would_ be better to be a live-in doctor- just for a while. If something went wrong, or Pete had a sudden pain attack- Patrick really needed to be a shouting distance away. Also, Pete was in no state to take care of Bronx and Saint- and since Meagan was gone, they had nobody.

Patrick fought away any hesitations, there were too many reasons as to why he had to do this. He nodded, looking up into the expectant, soft brown eyes.

 

“Okay.”

 

Pete grinned, “Awesome.” He leaned back in his chair, “So when do we start?”

 

“Tomorrow.”

 

“Cool.”

 

“-And Pete?”

 

“Yeah, Patrick?”

 

 

“...Just... _brace yourself_.”

 

 

 


	10. God Bless The American Housewife

 

“Brace yourself, huh?”

 

Pete glanced at the needle timidly, placidly sat in it’s box on the counter.

Patrick smiled sympathetically as he washed his hands in the sink, before pulling on a pair of gloves, and walking over to Pete. The redhead dabbed a wipe with alcohol, wincing slightly at Pete’s grunt as he trailed it over the spine.

“Well, can’t say I didn’t warn you.”

Pete laughed softly, head drooping down, eyes squeezing shut, and shoulders hunching in anticipation. Patrick furrowed his brow, placing a gentle hand on Pete’s shoulder, “You need to relax- it’ll be worse if you don’t.”

Pete exhaled shakily, but nodded, dropping his shoulders. Patrick watched the muscles shift under his skin as he relaxed and he nodded again, as he pushed the bevel of the needle into the rubber stopper of a vial. Slowly, he pulled the plunger back, carefully squinting at the measurement lines before stopping abruptly as the syringe filled.

Patrick sighed heavily, placing a hand on Pete’s spine and grimacing at the older man’s sharp intake of breath. “Tell me if hurts too much, okay?”

Pete nodded, and Patrick assumed he was trying to keep quiet- seeing as Bronx, Saint and Declan were only a few rooms away; Neither of them wanted the three kids to run in, thinking Pete was getting _murdered_ or something.

 

Patrick exhaled quietly, blues eyes flicking up to watch Pete’s reactions as he pressed down on a crooked lump in the indent of the spine. Pete instantly hunched over, biting down on his arm and holding back a scream with a strained, whining gurgle.

Patrick put the needle down and quickly moved to Pete’s side, brow furrowed in worry, but the older man only shuddered and looked up- hands dragging down to reveal his eyes, but keeping the rest of his face covered.

 

“That bad?”

 

Pete could only nod shakily.

 

Patrick sighed. They had to get this done, without the injections his spine would be so brittle it might snap- and that _would_ completely paralyse him. He tilted his head, eyes narrowed at Pete.

 

“...Do you own any belts?”

 

 

 

 

 

 

“Bite down- hard.”

 

“Kinky.”

 

“ _Just do it Pete_.”

 

Pete laughed loudly with crinkled eye corners, before complying and biting down- grinning up at Patrick while wiggling his eyebrows. Patrick rolled his eyes, but not being able to hold back a small smile as he moved to face Pete’s spine again- pulling the belt back and fastening it around the back of Pete’s head, tying a knot with the two, excess ends.

The older man grunted at the sudden pull, and a muffled protest of ‘ _Jesus Christ_ ’, was promptly ignored by Patrick.

The redhead picked up the syringe again, pulling the skin taut between two fingers. “D’you want a countdown?” Pete nodded, eyes clenching shut and exhaling heavily.

 

“Three.”

 

Patrick stared at the small lump at the base of Pete’s neck, and settled the syringe over it.

 

“Two.”

  
Pete relaxed his muscles again, breathing deeply.

 

“One.”

  
Patrick pushed the bevel in, and instantly- Pete _screamed_ , belt crushing between his teeth but thankfully, muffling the sound. His whole body tensed as the veins in his neck strained, and he trembled all over. Patrick quickly moved his free hand to Pete’s shoulder- trying to keep him steady, while the other pushed the plunger down. “It’s okay- just breathe, it’s okay.”

Pete whimpered as the sharpness needle pulled away, and shuddered as the softness of a cotton ball replaced it. Patrick tilted his head, brow furrowed. “Are you feeling okay? Not gonna pass out or anything, right?”

Pete laughed weakly, but again, it was muffled by the belt. He nodded and gave Patrick a half-hearted thumbs-up.

Patrick gulped, gaze shifting back at the boxes of liquid left.

 

“One down, thirty-two to go.”

 

The answer was muffled.

  
  
“ _What the fuck?!”_

 

 

 

 

 

 

“That sucked,” Pete rolled his shoulders, head twisting to look at his back in a mirror. Patrick watched him grimace at the lines of red dots lining the center. “ _Agh_ \- that really fucking hurts.”

“I can give you some painkillers, if you want.”

Pete exhaled sharply, “No, it’s fine-” He leaned back, eyes squeezing shut for a beat. “I’ll take it like a man.”

Patrick laughed, and Pete smiled at the sound, before suddenly furrowing his brow and turning to look at Patrick, “Why the fuck were there _thirty-three?_ ”

Patrick only huffed, eyes skimming over his calculations for Pete’s spine. “Thirty-three vertebrae, we need to move them all.”

Pete paled, but Patrick only shook his head, huffing amusedly, before squinting at Pete’s back, and then glancing back at the spine diagram sheet in his hand.

“ _Okay_... _so_ , I’ve worked out the measurements,” He quickly fished a red marker from his pocket, and started circling any injured areas. “What the fuck are you-”

“Marking them out- just trust me, okay?”

Pete grumbled a little but nodded.

 

Patrick stepped back, admiring his handiwork for a second, before furrowing his brow as he clicked the lid back on the marker. He moved his hands to Pete- one gripping his shoulder tenderly, and the other wrapping around his side, just below his ribcage. “I’m gonna pull, just move with it, okay?” Pete nodded, but grunted as Patrick pulled the two bones in different directions when-

 

Click.

 

A loud crackling click rang through the room, and Pete jolted away with a yelp- almost falling out of his chair in order to get away.

"Shit, are you okay?!” Patrick stared with wide eyes as he helped Pete back up. The older man just groaned, “You’re really messin’ me up here, dude.”

Patrick only grinned weakly, “Sorry-”

“Nah, it’s for the best right?”

Patrick could only nod. But not without a grimace- that Pete totally noticed.

 

 

 

 

 

 

“Right, so-” He poised his fingers around the highest lump, just below the nape of his neck. “I’ll try this one, if it hurts too much grab the belt again.”

  
Pete nodded, refrained from making _another_ dirty joke about the belt, and instead, tried his best to relax- despite the instinctive, worried trembling that refused to stop wracking his body.

 

Patrick knew he’d already suffered a lot- but there was still a lot more to come.

 

He wasn't sure he should tell Pete that this was only the preparation phase.

 

The 'warm-up' if you will.

 

Yeah...he wasn't sure Pete would take it very well.

 

Patrick pushed the lump down and to the side- slotting it back into place and glancing up when he saw Pete’s hand flash out to grab to belt again- pulling it against his mouth and whimpering, before groaning in agony into the leather of the belt.

 

Eventually, Patrick had pushed all the lumps back into place, and Pete had sighed in relief as he saw the redhead grab the brace; It was made of ridged material- stretchy but firm, and it looked intricate as hell. Patrick moved back and forth across Pete, hands working deftly and in tandem with the bandage-like fabric, until it was firmly locking his spine, shoulder blades, and ribs, in place.

“Okay...wear that around...80% of the time.”

Pete laughed weakly at Patrick's mumble, completely missing the fact that the redhead was, _in fact_ , talking to himself. “The fuck does ‘ _80%_ ’ mean?” Patrick only rolled his eyes fondly. “...God, nevermind...just let _me_ worry about that.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

“I told her.”

 

Patrick glanced up from his notes, “I guessed.” Pete only smiled weakly, rolling his shoulder and gasping sharply at the sudden sting. Patrick’s eyes widened instantly, before his face scrunched up into exasperation. “Dude, _stop_ rolling them.”

Pete jutted his lip out, only making Patrick roll his eyes fondly. “Seriously, they’re already gonna ‘ _pop out_ ’, they don’t need anymore help.”

 

“They’re _what?_ ”

 

Patrick shook his head softly, but his eyes flashed with sympathy. “I have to re-fix them _every day_ , and _over time_ they’ll stay in the right place. It's not immediate.”

Pete only whined, leaning back in his wheelchair and pressing his hands over his face. The redhead’s face scrunched up in pained sympathy- he really wished the process wasn’t so painful, but a twisted spine wasn’t something you could just ‘walk off’.

They sat in silence for a few minutes; Patrick was reading over his notes, and Pete was seemingly contemplating the inevitability of death, if the somber look on his face was any indication.

 

Patrick glanced up, eyes wide and concerned. He really wanted to... _he wanted to ask_ , about Meagan, but...he didn’t want to make things _awkward_.

Pete’s eyes abruptly shifted to his, making Patrick duck his head, trying to stop his face flushing at getting caught staring.

 

 

“I uh- She...she wasn’t thrilled by the idea of...me being _paralysed_ , and uh- I just- I just got sick of lying, and- and hiding it...So, I told her.”

 

 

Patrick was pretty sure Pete was a fucking psychic.

 

 

Patrick stared for a moment, nodding slowly while he gaped a little, eyes blinking as he tried to think of how to respond. “I uh...I know it’s not... _easy_ , to- to admit- or to, _confess_ , rather- but...” The younger man smiled sadly, “It’s for the best.”

Pete nodded, matching the sad smile, and soon enough, the room descended into silence again- but Patrick felt as though something was left unsaid. Something that was on the edge of escaping.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“Dad, what’s 12 divided by 6?”

 

Saint looked up at Pete with wide, pleading eyes, and the older man froze for a second, eyes glazing over in thought.

 

“You’re really stumped on that one huh?”

 

“Shut up Patrick.”

 

Patrick only laughed at the tone, and Pete couldn’t hold back a grin either.

Seeing as Bronx and Saint had been living on _cereal_ for a week- and seeing as Pete hadn’t even eaten _anything_ , Patrick had offered to cook for them.

He’d always been good at it, and never really minded it either- and on top of that, Bronx and Declan had eagerly asked if they could help, and Patrick had agreed. Saint had asked too, but Patrick insisted he finish his homework- wholeheartedly promising that he could help another time.

 

Something which Patrick had found _ridiculous_ \- but incredibly ‘ _Pete Wentz_ ’, was that there was literally a _kitchen_ on the _second floor_ of the house- and it was no smaller than the ground floor’s.

And while Patrick had literally rolled his eyes so much that he’d felt as though they were going to fall out- he had to admit, it was pretty handy.

Pete was still _mostly_ wheelchair bound- he could easily shove himself onto couches, beds and chairs, but it would be some time until his spine was straight enough for him to walk distances painlessly, so leaving the second floor was not a viable- or responsible option yet.

 

A loud thud cut sharply through his thoughts, and he jolted to see that Bronx had pretty much slammed a knife into a board- perfectly and deeply wedging it into the wood.

The boy looked sheepish, and only hunched apologetically with a small ‘sorry’. Patrick only checked him over, praying he hadn’t cut himself. “Are you okay? Didn’t cut yourself?” The boy’s eyes widened and he shook his head, making Patrick exhale with a relieved smile and carefully pull the knife out of the board, quickly explaining that the key was to ‘ _slice_ ’, not to ‘ _stab_ ’- like a serial killer, before handing the knife back to Bronx- who now looked eager to try again and fix his error.

 

Patrick glanced over at Pete; Saint was sat on his knee, bombarding him with math questions that would make the man freeze over in concentration as the gears of his mind spun to work them out.

 

The redhead glanced to his side; Declan was cutting a tomato, being incredibly precise and squinting at every slice- making sure every single one was identical. Patrick had half a mind to tell him to chill out, that it wasn’t a big deal- but his son looked so ‘ _in the zone_ ’ that he didn’t want to distract him.

Patrick glanced at Bronx, who was now _slicing_ the chicken- instead of _stabbing_ it, with a small, satisfied smile. The boy looked up at Patrick blankly for a second, before smiling a little at him, before lowering his head again, squinting down at the board.

 

Patrick had to admit he felt like a mom, or like a 40s housewife, or something- it was a pretty weird feeling, but not... _unpleasant_ \- and while that freaked him out a little, he decided to shove it out of his mind and focus on the task at hand- dicing peppers.

  
Shit he _really_ sounded like a housewife.

 

 

 

 

Patrick only glanced up for a moment to see Pete, squinting thoughtfully at Saint. “Pretty sure it’s 2.”

The boy nodded eagerly and scribbled down the answer, before tilting his head up at his dad again.

 

“What’s 8 times 12?”

 

“ _Fuck_.”

 

“Pete, language! _Jesus-_ ”

 

“-Oh fuck, sorry.”

 

“ _-Dude_ -”

 

“-Okay, kids- pretend you never heard that.”

 

Saint nodded eagerly while beaming, but Bronx and Declan only glanced at each other with mischievous grins that made Pete squint. “I mean that.”

 

“Yes dad.”

“Yes Mr. Wentz.”

 

 

“ _Daaad_ …?”

 

Saint looked up with wide eyes again, holding the worksheet up. “Oh _goddamn_ -”

 

“96, Saint.”

 

“Thanks Mr. Stumph!”

 

Pete furrowed his brow at Patrick, “Literally how?”

Patrick only laughed in bewilderment, “Are you kidding me?” He froze, knife shoving down into a pepper, before staring up with an amused grin as he watched Pete shrug and shake his head. “ _Oh my god_ \- did you _never_ learn math?”

Pete huffed, leaning back, “My education ended when I was fifteen, don’t judge me.”

The younger man only shook his head with a grin, but Pete only squinted suspiciously.

 

“...But like _how_ -?”

 

“Pete- I calculated _every inch_ _and angle_ of your _entire_ spine- _I_ , for one, _did_ learn math.”

 

Pete only laughed, before stifling a groan as Saint looked up from his paper again.

 

“What’s 16 divided by 8?”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Patrick glanced over at Pete, who widened his eyes and smiled broadly, trying to hold back a laugh.

Apparently, Bronx had picked up a few habits in Brazil; As his mom would often be out- either working or meeting people, he’d learnt to be self-sufficient to some degree. And by self-sufficient, he’d meant ‘ _not starve to death_ ’.

Patrick had been extremely worried to learn that Bronx literally lived on cereal, water, bread- or just about anything in the pantry/refrigerator, for months at a time.

Thankfully, after a blood test which Bronx hadn’t minded at all (successfully giving Patrick a reason to call Pete a wuss for grimacing during every blood test- ever), he’d determined that Bronx was _somehow_ _healthy_ \- a little malnutrition, but there were no lasting effects, and everything could be regulated by as little as a week of a varied diet.

Apart from his _limited,_ and _very concerning_ diet- another habit that Bronx had picked up was watching TV or movies until he passed out on the couch- something he’d usually do when he tried to wait up for his mom to come home.

...And _that_ had successfully broken Patrick’s heart a little- and Pete’s too, apparently, because when Bronx asked to watch a movie after dinner- despite it being _extremely_ late, and _way past_ the kid's bedtimes: they’d both caved.

 

They were both total pushovers, and over the time of Pete’s recovery- these kids were going to get extremely spoiled, no doubt about it.

 

They'd all ended up on a couch, watching a Disney film that Patrick was not paying the slightest bit of attention to- he vaguely noted something about _bears_ , but despite his own anxious thoughts driving him away from the film- the three boys were extremely captivated, all three sets of eyes locked on the screen.

After about an hour, the three kids had started blinking slowly, desperately trying to hold back yawns and trying to stay awake- but it had eventually been futile, and sleep had overtaken them.

 

Now, the two adults were on polar opposite ends of the couch, with three children smushed and sleeping between them; Declan’s head was resting on Patrick’s thigh, and he was tucked up into the fetal position, hands curled up into fists. Patrick smiled fondly; His hands would always ball up into fists when he fell asleep- they always had since he was born, and he suspected they always would. He remembered the night when Declan was born; He'd been a new, terrified, barely-adult father, but as he'd held his newborn son, watching his fists curl up, and hearing him breathe softly- he'd known it was all going to be okay.

 

Patrick glanced over, and saw that Saint was sat on Pete’s leg, face smushed against his dad’s shoulder, whereas Bronx could have still looked awake, if viewed from behind. He was leaning back into the couch, head drooping onto his shoulder a little, his eyes were also closed and his mouth was parted in soft, sleepy breathing.

 

Patrick felt a poke at his shoulder, and looked up to see Pete grinning at him, leaning to his side a little and his arm straining to reach the younger man. Now that he had his attention, Pete nodded down at the kids, and then nodded at the hall behind him, making Patrick smile and nod softly.

 

 

Putting a kid to bed, without waking them up, was always a challenge.

 

Putting _three_ kids to bed, without waking _any_ of them up, might as well been a mission impossible scheme.

 

Fuck it.

 

Objective one: _Declan Stumph_.

 

Patrick slid his hand under Declan’s head, keeping it steady as he shifted gently, slipping off of the couch and gliding his other arm under his son’s knees, before carefully lifting him- and only stopping _once_ in panic when he felt the boy stir a little.

Pete applauded silently, and Patrick couldn’t hold back his grin, but he opted to roll his eyes- just to let Pete know he wasn’t impressed by the joke.

 

Patrick moved forwards, before his gaze clicked back onto Pete.

 

He’d just realized- he didn’t know where to put Declan, they’d only arrived that morning, and nothing had been _arranged_ yet, as Patrick had been eager to start the treatment.

 

Pete, once again, proved himself to be a psychic, and pointed back at a hallway with five sets of doors on each side. He held up four fingers, while mouthing ‘left’.

Patrick just about understood, and nodded slowly, while quietly stepping away, being careful not to knock Declan’s head on any corners...he may or may not have done that once, but in his defense- He'd been very tired from a night shift at the hospital, and Declan had been _totally fine_ anyway.

 

Following Pete’s- honestly _quite vague_ instructions, he opened the fourth door awkwardly, as he tried not to drop Declan, before stepping inside. His eyes widened at little at the huge room, but he instantly scolded himself; Seriously, he should have come to expect this level of grandeur by now.

 

Moving over to the bed silently, Patrick gently placed Declan on the bed, before shifting the comforter from under him, and covering him with it instead. His son made a small, content noise as Patrick kissed him on the forehead, before moving away, but glancing back one last time with a smile, and closing the door with a soft click.

He shifted back into the living room and huffed with amusement as he watched Saint snuggle further against his dad- arm over his shoulder and face buried in his neck.

 

One down, two to go.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“Keep still- Jesus- stop _squirming_.”

Patrick grunted in exasperation as Pete _insisted_ on rolling his shoulders for the eightieth time, grimacing with a pained groan as he felt something move out of place. Patrick’s hands worked deftly, expertly untying the brace, before pulling it away carefully.

He chewed his lip as he squinted at Pete’s back with concern for a second, noting a few swollen bumps here and there. Patrick placed the brace on the dresser and left the room- but not without a confused look and small, dazed noise of protest from Pete. A few minutes later, and he promptly returned, holding a bunched up towel filled with ice cubes.

 

Patrick sat next to Pete on the edge of the bed, saying nothing but gently pushing on his shoulder, turning the man away from him. Patrick tilted his head, eyes narrowed in focused concentration, before tenderly placing the icy towel on Pete’s spine, and pressing down carefully. He smiled softly when he only heard a small groan of satisfaction from Pete.

“Ice?”

Patrick nodded, before mentally scolding himself, remembering that Pete was facing away, and he wasn’t _a fucking owl_ _that could turn his head 360° to see Patrick nod_. _Wow_ , Patrick got _real grumpy_ when he was tired.

“U-uh, yeah, it is.”

Pete nodded gently, shuddering at the cold, and Patrick watched goosebumps instantly rise on his skin. Patrick dabbed the ice all along the spine, and when he was satisfied at the lack of swelling, and worried at the multitudes of red patches- he moved away.

He placed the ice next to the brace- before realizing the brace was gonna get _soaked_ , and groaned before trudging back to the kitchen, before returning to promptly grab some white bandages.

 

Pete yawned quietly as Patrick’s hands repeated their graceful movements, threading the bandages over Pete’s spine, ribcage and shoulders- keeping everything steady, while still being loose enough to not damage his skin.

“Alright, you’re done.” Patrick said quietly, voice laced with exhaustion. Pete turned back, eyes drowsy and smile soft, as he gazed at Patrick. “Thank you.”

Patrick huffed gently with a smile, “S’just a bandage-”

“No, I meant like- thanks for _everything_.”

Patrick’s eyes widened a fraction and he nodded softly, smiling easily. He was about to respond when a tender hand cupped his cheek.

Patrick’s eyes widened visibly this time, and he blinked in slight confusion, eyes squinting lightly. He nervously shifted his gaze away from Pete, who moved his head to chase his eyes, as his hand pressed against Patrick's face.

Patrick’s eyes flicked upwards again, and he tried to keep his breathing steady as he looked into Pete’s eyes; They were soft, tired, and... _loving_. Patrick wasn’t sure how to feel about what he saw there, but- he couldn't seem to shake some... _worrying_ thoughts out of his mind. He imagined Pete surging forwards, slotting their lips together, hand running through his hair- and then his mind went blank.

 

 

And he didn’t have to imagine it anymore.

 

 

Pete kissed him, lips moving softly against his own.

Pete had never kissed him like that before- gentle, tender, slow; And Patrick couldn’t help but shiver at the memory of the way he’d kissed him in Japan- rough, hard, demanding.

 

No- _No_ , this was different. _Very_ different.

 

Patrick realized he’d frozen in place, and was about to reciprocate when-

 

“I-I’m sorry- I-” Pete pulled away, eyes wide, avoiding contact and head shaking- looking as though he was mentally scolding himself.

 

 

Patrick considered leaving.

 

 

He wasn’t sure this was a great idea, Pete was injured, and he didn’t need any distractions- and...if…

 

Well, he needed...he didn't...

 

_Fuck_.

 

...Well.

 

...Truthfully.

 

Patrick couldn’t think of a good enough reason why not to.

 

He cared about Pete. So fucking much, it was scary.

 

...And maybe, just maybe...Pete cared about _him_ too.

 

His hands shot out to the sides of Pete’s head, one hand moving back into his hair as he brought Pete against him, lips linking together again as he sighed softly.

He heard, and felt, Pete shudder in relief, before moving both hands to Patrick’s face again.

Patrick tilted his head, hand moving to caress the nape of the older man’s neck, before shifting over to his shoulder instead. He didn’t want to venture to close to his spine, he didn’t want to remind Pete of _that_ right now.

Pete exhaled sharply, one hand moving to card through Patrick’s hair, while the redhead sighed contentedly at the feeling, before opting to link his arms around Pete’s neck, pressing closer still. The older man sighed gently, fingers threading through Patrick’s hair, as the soft noises of the tender kisses rang loudly in Patrick’s ears- along with his own, thundering heartbeat, that jolted like a drum.

 

A month ago he would have rather jumped off the cliff than be in this position- but right now, he couldn’t think of anything better... _well, actually, he could think of a few_ , but Pete was still way too injured for... _that_.

 

Pete must have been thinking the same however, because Patrick felt a hand running down his side tenderly, before long fingers splayed over his hip.

The mouth against his own moaned, and Patrick felt Pete’s breathing getting heavier. He felt Pete lead his head to the side by tugging on the soft strawberry-blonde strands, and Patrick obliged, letting a small, whining moan escape him.

He felt both of Pete’s hands glide to grip his hips gently, pulling the younger man to straddle his lap, and rolling his own hips weakly, grunting at the sharp sting of pain in his lower back at the movement. Patrick didn’t register it, his brain was addled with thoughts, overwhelmed with feelings, and _touches_ , and _hands_ , and _lips_ , and _Pete_ \- and he really couldn’t think straight right now. But then his hands trailed over Pete’s chest, and-

 

 

Bandages.

 

 

Pete was injured, and if this... _escalated_ right now, it wouldn’t do his spine any favours.

 

Pete was kissing his neck now, but _those_ kisses were softer this time too- not like the ones that had left bruises a few months ago in an unnecessary, two-storey hotel room. As Pete's soft kisses trailed down his neck with gentle noises, Patrick couldn’t help but mewl at the feeling, but he knew he had to stop all of it, before it went to far and had consequences.

He leaned back, shuddering at the feeling of his hips shifting against Pete’s, and softly placed his hands on Pete’s cheeks, lifting his head to stare seriously into his eyes. His brow furrowed, but his whole expression and posture instantly softened at Pete’s dilated pupils, swollen mouth and quiet panting.

 

“You’re hurt, Pete.”

Patrick tilted his head a little, watching Pete exhale deeply and look up at Patrick wantonly. Patrick softened his eyes even more, trying to look convincing, while smiling softly as he caressed the sides of Pete’s face, feeling the rough stubble that felt like sandpaper under his fingertips. “We can’t. Not until...” Patrick lowered his gaze, feeling an involuntary flush break over his face. Jesus, Pete had an annoying effect on him.

 

The older man sighed, and leaned his forehead against Patrick’s, eyes closing softly. Patrick’s eyes fluttered shut too, but his smile only broadened into an easy grin. They breathed softly, eyes closed, and just feeling each other's presence, listening to each other's breathing.

Pete huffed amusedly and blinked his eyes open, pulling his head back and looking up at Patrick with mirth. “Okay, Patrick.”

His mouth twisted into a familiar, sly half-smile, and his lidded eyes twinkled with mischief as he moved to softly kiss at the shell of Patrick’s ear, one hand still carding through the other man’s hair.

 

 

“You’re worth the wait.”

 

 

 


	11. Your Dad Sucks At Math

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it's a little shorter than usual! I just needed a time transition, and I needed to set some stuff up for the next chapter- which will be really important!

 

“Okay, c’mon, you can do it buddy.”

 

Declan’s tongue poked out of his mouth in concentration, before he ran forwards with the ball at his feet. Pete moved to tackle it- although Patrick knew he was going easy on the boy. Declan quickly spun while dragging the ball under his foot- effortlessly darting past, before stumbling to a stop and beaming back at Pete, face overwhelmed with joy.

Pete grinned, ruffling the boy’s hair, “Good job, dude! You’ll be better than me in no time.”

Declan’s face dropped into blank shock, blue eyes wide, just as he started ranting- vehemently defending Pete’s abilities. “No, no, no- there’s _no_ way-”

Pete laughed easily, eyes squinting shut and their corners crinkling. Declan kicked the ball to Bronx- who instantly grinned. “C’mon, let’s try the ‘around the world’ thing!” Declan nodded eagerly, and the older boy kicked the ball back to his dad. Pete only huffed in amusement, “I can already do it- it’s _you guys_ who need to learn-”

“You can give us a…” Declan’s brow furrowed and his mouth pouted in deep thought, Patrick assumed he’d forgotten the word.

 

“-Demonstration!”

 

Bronx helpfully chimed in, earning a happy nod from Declan. Pete laughed quietly, mouth twisting into a grin before flicking the ball to rest on his sneaker. His smile only broadened when he glanced up to see both boys staring in wonder. Pete kicked the ball up a few inches, quickly circling his foot around it, and catching it perfectly and steadily again.

“Okay,” Pete dropped the ball, resting his foot on it. “Who wants to try first?”

 

 

 

Patrick was sat on the couch- thighs and coffee table covered in medical papers as he watched the three practising soccer through the floor-to-ceiling windows, and a soft, easy smile settled on his face.

 

Four months had passed. Four, long, painful months, but finally, after a lot of work and a lot of suffering- Pete was walking again. He still wasn’t totally healed, however- Patrick wasn't allowing any taxing movements yet, but there was still pressure for him to play professionally again.

Patrick wasn’t too happy about the idea; Playing in the yard with two kids was different to playing in a stadium against eleven, world-class players.

 

...But as soon as they'd heard Pete was walking again- LA Galaxy’s board had _insisted_ he do some trials at the stadium, and Patrick wasn’t sure how to... _break the news_.  
He knew Pete would jump all over the offer like a hyperactive puppy, but Patrick still wasn’t sure it was a good idea.

The news about his injury had finally been made public around two months prior- and there it was wonder that there hadn’t been any riots or anything, judging by how _pissed_ people were. In Patrick’s opinion, the media hadn’t... _phrased it_ , in the best way possible; Some notably ridiculous headlines had been: ‘ _Pete Wentz paralysed from the waist down_ ’, and Patrick’s personal favourite- ‘ _Pete Wentz gets both legs amputated_ ’, just because of just _how incredibly wrong_ it was.

 

 

“Mr. Stumph?”

 

 

Patrick was jolted away from his thoughts by a small voice, and he quickly looked to his side, seeing Saint, standing there a little timidly. He smiled down kindly, tilting his head at the boy’s nervous expression. “Are you okay, Saint?”

Saint nodded eagerly, eyes wide, before his gaze moved back to his feet, as he shuffled them nervously- and Patrick smiled, he did that too when he was nervous.

“I uh- it’s uh...”

Patrick leaned forwards a little, eyes wide and convincing. “What’s wrong, buddy?”

Saint’s eyes flicked up before he exhaled quietly. “...Declan told me you...” His gaze dropped again, “That you played the...g-guitar…?”

 

Patrick furrowed his brow with a small smile, head tilting a little of its own accord. He remembered Declan's gift at Saint's sixth birthday, and he wondered if the question was correlated. “Yeah, I do.”

Saint looked up with a tiny smile, “...Can you teach me?”

Patrick’s smile instantly broadened into a grin, and he nodded, “Of course.” Saint grinned and his chest puffed up with happiness, before his face dropped blank in realization and he darted away to the stairs. “I’ll be right back, I jus’ have to get it!”

Patrick laughed quietly, running a hand over his face and quickly sorting and making small piles of papers, tossing them down on the coffee table.

Saint promptly returned and practically leapt onto the couch, sitting cross-legged while facing Patrick and grinning up expectantly, making Patrick smile, and turn. “Okay, what d’you know so far?” Saint nodded, head dropping to the fingerboard as he bit his lip and furrowed his brow, placing his fingers into a C chord. He strummed lightly and looked up, “That’s a C, right?”

 

 

 

 

 

 

“Okay, so-” Patrick played a simple chord progression, and Saint watched with focused, squinted eyes. Patrick smiled and gently handed the guitar back to Saint, who took it and instantly bit his lip, carefully placing his fingers on the strings, and playing the same chords back practically perfectly- and on his first try too.

Over the two hours of teaching, Patrick had learnt that Saint actually had a natural flair for the guitar, and after noticing his talent- he’d offered to give him lessons in other instruments, mainly in drums and piano- to which the boy had vehemently agreed, with frantic repeats of the words-' _thank you so much!_ '.

 

Patrick grinned and nodded. “Great job!” The boy grinned up, and spoke with an eager voice. “So, what now?”  
Patrick furrowed his brow, “...D’you wanna try a song?” Saint nodded eagerly and Patrick smiled as he took the guitar again, placing his fingers and moving his other hand over the strings when-

 

 

“Are you actually serious?”

 

 

Dirt everywhere.

 

Grass stains _everywhere_.

 

Patrick really felt like a nagging mom right now.

 

Pete, Bronx and Declan stood at the back door- and they’d obviously tried to sneak in silently, judging by their hunched postures and sheepish smiles at getting caught.

 

“Hey Patrick!”

 

“Hey Mr. Stumph!”

 

“H-Hey dad!”

 

 

Patrick inhaled.

 

Patrick exhaled.

 

Patrick shut his eyes.

 

Patrick turned back to more important matters- like teaching Saint guitar, and putting infuriating ones out of his mind.

 

Pete, Bronx and Declan glanced at each other with relieved, wide eyes, before moving to sneak away again-

 

“Go change, I have to wash those.”

 

“Yes _Patrick_.”

 

“Drop the tone, _Wentz_.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Patrick shook his head at the grass-stained clothes, glaring at a Pete Wentz that wasn’t there, and silently cursing him with a slight grumble. If he kept this up they’d spend a small fortune in laundry detergent- although, thankfully, Pete still had cash to burn.

 

Patrick sighed and grabbed the clothes, moving over to the kitchen counter. He couldn’t just shove them in the wash- they’d turn everything a murky tint of green.

Patrick furrowed his brow in thought; What was good for grass stains…?

 

Patrick’s head suddenly shot up as his eyes widened, light bulb practically materializing over his head as he clicked his fingers: Vinegar and water.

 

Patrick turned to the kitchen, eyes narrowed; For some reason, things were never were they ought to be in this house- he once found salt in the fridge. He’d almost lost his mind.

 

He could just about figure out where to get water from, but as he rooted through all the cupboards- the vinegar eluded him.

Patrick furrowed his brow, staring blankly into the pantry as his mind whirled, wondering _where the fuck Pete kept the fucking vinegar_.

 

Patrick sighed dramatically, rolling his eyes with as much exaggeration as he could manage. He trudged around the house, trying to find Pete- but that was harder than it sounded, because Pete’s house was _way too fucking big_.

 

After around five minutes of walking around helplessly, and fruitlessly calling Pete’s name every now and then, when he saw an open door- light shining out into the hall, and heard chattering coming from inside. Patrick stepped forwards, peeking around the corner and huffing amusedly with a smile as he saw the three boys seemingly having a ‘ _toothbrushing contest_ ’ furiously brushing their teeth, with Pete- _the literal man-child_ , egging them on with commentary as though he were an announcer at a horse race.

Suddenly, Bronx spit into the sink, instantly raising his arms in triumph and grinning. “I WON.”

 

“ _Fuuuuck_.”

 

“DECLAN-”

 

“ _Sorry dad!_ ”

 

Patrick glared at Pete- who was losing his shit, leaning on the wall and arm pressed over his mouth in an attempt to stifle his laughter. “That’s _your_ fault, y’know.” Pete shook his head with wide eyes, mouth still twisted into an open grin, and he was about to argue, but the words died in his throat at Patrick’s glower and stifled smile.

Pete shook his head again, and raised his eyebrows at the three kids.

 

“Right, everyone finished?”

 

Bronx nodded, and so did Declan as he wiped his mouth with his hand, clearing the toothpaste, before washing his hands. Saint nodded too, putting his toothbrush away and yawning quietly.

 

“Cool, bedtime.”

 

“Ugh- daaad.”

 

“No c’mooon-”

 

“Okay!”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Patrick’s eyes narrowed softly as his fingers worked deftly to untie the tight brace, before replacing it with looser white bandages- just like he’d done a thousand times.

 

He had to admit that although he’d had a few reservations, he’d been actually... _really happy_ , at Pete’s house; Their kids were getting along famously, and everything was actually pretty... _peaceful_. Also, Pete had managed to keep himself... _under control_ ; Sure, Patrick would get pressed up against a wall every now and then- and he'd be kissed until he’d almost passed out from a lack of oxygen- but the older man was still doing a...okay- maybe it was only, _a decent_ job, at controlling himself.

 

 

Patrick ran his fingers down the center of the indent of Pete’s back, frowning at the few slight bumps that remained, but Pete seemed to sense his worry, and he turned in his seat, smiling up easily at Patrick. “Thanks.” Patrick only nodded in response, face still blank with concern- but his mouth twisted into a smile when Pete got up from the edge of the bed, and moved over to Patrick; He placed his hands on the pale cheeks, and smiled softly with loving eyes. Patrick smiled gently in response, and it only broadened into a grin when Pete surged forwards- slotting their lips together.

Pete’s hand trailed down his neck softly, and Patrick could only smile as he tilted his own head, pale hands moving to Pete’s hair. The older man groaned softly, hands moving to Patrick's hips, and edging the younger man towards the bed, dropping him down onto the comforter gently.

Pete started kissing his neck, and Patrick was pretty much losing his mind at this point- all worries blanking away. The older man shifted, settling his hips between Patrick’s thighs, and leaning up on his forearms as his lips became more wanton against Patrick’s.

 

Patrick knew this was a bad idea, and _god_ , while he _really_ wanted it-

 

 

“Pete.”

 

  
Pete looked up with wide- almost pleading eyes, but Patrick only smiled softly and shook his head. The older man groaned unhappily, dropping his forehead against Patrick’s shoulder, making the redhead laugh quietly, left hand carding through Pete’s hair. “We don’t wanna mess you up even more.”

Pete made a childish noise of annoyance and something muffled that sounded like ‘ _don’t care_ ’, was murmured into Patrick’s shoulder.

Patrick laughed softly, shoving at Pete and motioning for him to _get off_. Pete sighed dramatically, and rolled over to lie on his back on the other side of the mattress. Patrick huffed in amusement for a second, before leaning up to leave- when a hand caught his wrist, pulling him back down, and flush against a bandaged chest.

 

Pete grinned, eyes twinkling in amusement, before furrowing his brow and speaking very a matter-of-factly. “My mattress is comfier than yours.” Patrick laughed, moving his forehead to lean against Pete’s collarbones.

 

“...I know that’s just an excuse, but it actually is.”

 

Pete laughed loudly, throwing an arm over Patrick, and shifting the other under his head. Patrick’s eyes flicked upwards and he smiled softly. “Even though it’s an excuse, you can still _stay_ -I’m not gonna molest you in your sleep, dude. And if I do try to _sleepwalk-rape_ you, or something- you can just kick me in the back- you have my wholehearted permission to destroy my spine.”

Patrick only laughed loudly and unbridled, eyes squeezing shut, before Pete joined him softly. The laughter faded away after a few moments, but the silence was promptly shattered again.

 

“Thank you for teaching Declan soccer.”

 

“Thank _you_ for teaching Saint guitar.”

 

Patrick’s smile broadened a little, and he shifted his head up to gaze at Pete fully, bringing a hand up to trail across his cheek. Pete kissed his forehead in response, and Patrick felt warm inside, smile quickly contorting into a grin. Patrick ducked his head under Pete’s chin, nuzzling into his neck and eyes blinking closed.

He sighed softly, hand moving to fiddle with a loose strand on one of the bandages. “...Pete?”

 

“Yeah Patrick?”

 

“...The uh- the club-” He stifled a heavy sigh, “They want you to do a _trial_ \- see if you’re okay to-”

 

Pete shifted back and leaned up on his arm, moving to look at Patrick- eyes searching for any deception in Patrick’s eyes, and when he found none, his face split into an overjoyed grin. He laughed quietly, tightly wrapping his arms around Patrick, cheek smushed against Patrick’s hair.

 

“Thank you.”

 

“...For what?”

 

A small scoff, with no real anger or disgust.

 

“Well, for starters- for healing my back-”

 

“Technically, I _didn’t really_ -”

 

“AND SECONDLY-” Patrick laughed into Pete’s chest at the faux-angry tone. “-Thank you for telling me.”

 

Patrick’s brow furrowed. Pete had known? Or, had Patrick been acting off? Shit, was Pete actually a psychic? Oh fuck, he'd had so many dirty thoughts, shit-

Pete pulled back again, smiling down at Patrick while running a thumb over his sharp cheekbone.

 

“It’s really obvious when you’re hiding something.”

 

Patrick punched his shoulder playfully with a fake grimace, and it only served to make Pete tip his head back and laugh.

The redhead huffed, a tiny smile worming its way onto his lips, as he buried his face against Pete’s chest again. “I’ll work on that.”

Pete laughed again, before quietening down and pulling Patrick closer with one arm- while his other hand carded through the strawberry-blonde strands softly. They’d drifted asleep, tangled together and breathing softly, but it had only been twenty minutes of peace when-

 

 

“Dad?”

 

 

Both pairs of eyes blinked open, and Pete instantly turned onto his back, leaning up to squint at the figure in the doorframe. “Saint, buddy, are you okay?”

The boy crept over, “Can’t sleep.” Pete gulped slightly, and smiled softly, “C’mere.” Saint hoisted himself up, crawling over his dad’s legs and settling between both men as Patrick shifted back to make room. The redhead yawned, stifling it with his hand as he leaned up and shifted the comforter over them all.

Pete turned back onto his side, throwing an arm over his son and linking his fingers with Patrick’s. The younger man only yawned again, face nuzzling into his- holy shit, _so fucking soft_ , pillow. Saint made a small content noise, before his hand shifted over to Patrick’s free hand, wrapping around fingers. Patrick’s eyes fluttered open at that, confusion wracking his brain before he smiled tiredly, and let his eyelids droop shut again. There was a comfortable silence for a few moments, before-

 

“ _Dad?_ ”

 

It was a quiet- almost timid, whisper, and it was muffled against Pete’s arm.

 

“Yeah buddy?”

 

There was a soft yawn, before a dazed, sad string of words broke the silence again.

 

 

“I’m sorry I’m not very good at soccer.”

 

 

Patrick himself jolt awake at the words, and his brow furrowed, as he leaned up on his forearm. He could tell Pete was just as shocked; He felt the fingers locked with his own tense, before moving away as he watched Pete sit up- shaking Saint awake lightly and narrowing his eyebrows.

“Saint, hey- hey, c’mon- look- look at me.” Pete’s stare was burning and serious, and Saint looked nervous as he sat up, rubbing his eyes. Pete cupped a hand over Saint’s cheek, staring with honest, pressing eyes. “Please- Please, don’t-” He exhaled shakily, dropping his hand and sighing- Patrick could tell he was at a loss for words.

He didn’t know if it was his place, but he glanced between them, before smiling gently at Saint. “I think, what your dad’s trying to say...” Pete looked at him with wide, pleading and grateful eyes.

“You shouldn’t feel bad about- _you shouldn’t feel bad about_ not being good at soccer, buddy.”

Saint shifted a little, “But, I-”

“Different people are good at different things- like, your dad’s good at soccer-” Saint nodded frantically, “But he’s not good at math.”

 

“Hey!”

 

“Don’t _even_ try to argue, dude.”

 

Saint giggled quietly, and yawned, rubbing his eyes with his sleeve again. “So, like, the way that you’re good at the needles?” Pete laughed softly, and Patrick huffed in amusement with a nod. “Yeah buddy. Besides, you’re great at guitar- really great, buddy.” There was only truth in Patrick’s words, and Saint smiled softly, nodding and drooping back against his dad’s chest.

They all shifted back into their prior positions, and just as Patrick was falling asleep-

 

“ _Patrick_.”

 

The universe really did _not_ want him to get some rest.

 

He blinked his eyes open, hearing Pete’s low whisper- trying not to wake the- _now soundly_ sleeping Saint.

 

“ _Yeah?_ ”

 

Pete smiled, eyes tearing a little, and he moved to properly hold Patrick’s hand, fingers laced together tightly. He squeezed it and leaned over to press a kiss to the back of the pale hand.

 

 

“ _Thank you_.”

 

 

 


	12. Let's Get Physical

 

“Alright, be _careful_ , don’t strain-”

 

“Don’t _strain myself_ , don’t _twist my back_ , don’t _run too fast_ \- I know dude.”

 

Patrick could only glare lightly, and shake his head with a deep exhale. “Take your shirt off.”

Pete grinned suggestively, and the redhead only stared blankly, but he couldn’t help huffing in amusement. The older man tugged his shirt off and Patrick motioned for him to stand. Pete obliged and was instantly turned to face the wall. Patrick started checking the brace, tugging on any loose or undone pieces, and promptly fixing them- pulling them taut again.

When his deft, examining movements finished he stepped back, nodding, and when he didn’t feel Patrick’s hands on him anymore, Pete promptly shrugged his shirt back on.

 

“Well, they’re expecting you.” Patrick nodded to the door, and Pete grinned, standing, and leaving the room- but not without pressing a kiss to Patrick’s cheek.

The redhead huffed again, smiling as he put away equipment. As he signed each form and then piled them away in a folder, and he looked around at the room- allowing himself to reminisce for a few moments.

 

This was actually the first room he’d treated Pete in- on his first day at his new job. He remembered just _how much_ of an asshole Pete had been, and how shallow Patrick had- admittedly, _misjudged_ , him to be.

If he could have travelled back in time to talk to himself on that first day, Patrick would have never have believed himself at how things ended up between him and Pete. Patrick knew there was still a long road ahead, and that relationships, and families, were never _completely_ flawless- but he knew they were strong, they all were, and they could work through any problems or obstacles that came their way- _he knew they could_.

 

 

After packing everything away, Patrick decided to go watch the trial- just to make sure Pete was dealing with it well. He’d managed to delay the trial for another month, and while stalling had worked miracles- but he still didn’t feel like it was enough time.

He trudged the familiar route to the training grounds- The same one Dahlman had led him on the first day, the same day he’d literally gaped at Pete for a good, solid five whole minutes.

 

Pete still hadn't let him forget that.

 

Patrick moved over the closest benches, taking a silent seat next to Borisova, and glancing along the other seats to see Dahlman and Martins- who had been promptly hired by LA after the World Cup. Patrick leaned forwards and clasped his hands together- leaning them against his mouth and watching the pitch with wide eyes, full of concern.

 

 

But Pete was perfect.

 

 

He always was.

 

 

That being said, Pete had spent close to fifteen minutes getting swamped by the rest of the team- who were doing their _own_ training at the same time. After a lot of hugging, words of amazement, questions, and a few teary eyes- Pete was finally released from their clutches.

 

 

 

 

Patrick watched Pete carefully; He was now on the other side of the pitch, away from the buzzing teammates, and he was trialling penalties, with Joe in goal. Pete exhaled, before shaking himself, in an effort to focus himself up, before tilting his head from side to side, checking his neck.

Pete locked his eyes on Joe, gaze attentive and watching for any subtle body language that would give his plans away.

He stuttered forwards, managing to fake Joe out just enough, to kick the ball into the top left corner with a thud.

Pete grinned, and so did Joe- for once feeling no competition, and only being overjoyed his friend was back to normal. Their manager stepped forwards, nodding, but face still set in serious stone. “Alright, good, now-”

 

 

 

“Excellent job, Patrick.”

 

Patrick turned to see Borisova, who was smiling at him gently, she nodded to herself, and turned to watch Pete kick another ball into the net, but towards the lower corner this time.

 

“You did well.” Borisova looked as though she was holding back a few tears with a proud smile, “Very well.”

The words were simple, but Patrick could feel the immense gravity and pride behind them, so he nodded softly, smiling back at her. “Thank you, Sonia.”

 

“How did you do it, Dr. Stumph?”

 

Martins looked gobsmacked as he watched Pete gracefully tackle the ball away from Andy- they were now practising against defenders. “Did you do surgery?” Dahlman squinted at Patrick thoughtfully. Patrick looked confused, “If I had- wouldn’t you _know_ about it?”

The older man shrugged lightly, looking back at the pitch- smiling a little as Pete chipped the ball over Andy’s head.

 

“Yes we would- well we _should_ , but you were under no obligation to tell us- if you were working with a hospital.” He looked back at Patrick, “So, how did you do it?” Martins shook his head in bewilderment at Pete, “That _must_ have been surgery-”

 

“It wasn’t.”

 

The three doctors looked as though they’d just been told the sky was green.

 

Patrick could only shrug, trying to look truthful, whilst trying to sound convincing. “He didn’t want surgery- we used the ‘clear’ method.”

 

“...Just _therapy_ then? No...surgery...?”

 

Patrick shook his head, adamant this time and shrugging. “You can check his back for scars if you want. But I swear- no surgery.”

 

Dahlman shook his head softly, and his eyes were wide- it was the first time Patrick had seen them like that, it was the first time he’d seen him amazed. The man smiled, looking up at Patrick and nodding- pride scrawled all over his face. “Excellent job.”

 

And it was left at that, as silence overtook them again.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“Oh god, that was awesome.”  
  
Patrick huffed with a smile and checked the brace, settling any strands back into place. Pete turned instantly, an overjoyed grin on his face, and his eyes were grateful, and watering. The older man stood, and just as Patrick was going to protest that the brace wasn’t done- Pete kissed him softly, hands moving to the sides of his head.

Patrick shuddered, forgetting about the brace for a moment, and carding a hand through the dyed hair. Pete pulled away, although his hands refused to leave their positions, and he smiled gently. “Thank you.”

 

Patrick shook his head with an amused exhale, “I didn’t-”

 

“I never thought I’d wear this again.” Pete motioned to the LA galaxy kit- which only clad half of him, at the moment. His smile flickered for a second, and his eyes grew teary, making Patrick caress a hand over his cheek, before pulling him into a warm, tight embrace. “...You’re welcome.”

 

 

There was a knock at the door and they jolted apart from each other. Pete quickly moved to shrug his jersey back on, while Patrick opened the door, smiling nervously, and letting the people inside.

Three people stepped inside; Dahlman, stood next to a man and a woman that Patrick didn’t recognize- but that Pete did, apparently.

 

“Mr. Klein?”

 

The unknown man- or 'Klein' smiled, offering a hand to Pete. “Mr. Wentz. Feeling better I hope?”

Pete nodded, stifling a grin, and offering a smile instead as he shook the Klein’s hand. “And Dr. Stumph, is it?” Patrick nodded, taking the renewed offer of his hand with a lightly furrowed brow.

“Well, we need to borrow Mr. Wentz for a little while,” The woman started, “We’ll have to re-”

 

“Actually, can I make a suggestion?”

 

Dahlman chimed in with a smile, making the other two raise their eyebrows, but nod. Dahlman’s smile broadened and he exhaled. “Well, I think Dr. Stumph ought to be present too.”

Patrick’s brow furrowed deeply at that, and Klein and the woman looked just as confused, but Dahlman continued.

 

“He treated Mr. Wentz by himself, and he knows how his condition better than anyone. I, _actually_ , know next to nothing.”

 

The woman nodded slowly, turning to Patrick with a tight smile, and exhaling quietly.

 

“Very well, if you could both follow.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Patrick was pissed off already.

 

“So, we’ll need you to re-take your old schedule, and we’ll probably have to assign you extra training for any deterioration- oh, and the Copa America is coming soon so-”

 

Patrick glanced to his side, noting Pete’s worried expression, and he saw the hesitation behind his eyes. He knew Pete had already been overworked before the accident- and now they only wanted to _increase_ his hours. They also wanted him to do a ridiculous amount of interviews, and they had the intention to raise him up as a symbol of ‘ _The unbreakable Americans_ ’- and Patrick was truly pissed.

 

“So, on Saturday, we’ll need you to fly to New York for the interview with-”

 

 

“No.”

 

 

Klein and the woman- who he’d promptly learnt was named ‘Sophie Noble’ when the meeting had first started, froze in shock- gaping at Patrick’s outburst, indignation flooding their eyes. Patrick noticed Dahlman’s amused, yet approving smile, so he continued.

 

“He’s not fully healed yet, the only reason I even _let_ him do these trials, was because I knew he could handle them-”

 

“-Well, if he can handle trials, then I’m sure-”

 

“-No.”

 

Patrick furrowed his brow, mouth twisting his a dark scowl. “Trials are not the same as matches- okay?” He looked between them both, and when he was satisfied at their small nods, he resumed his arguement.

 

“He didn’t suffer _five months_ of treatment- _thirty-three injections_ in _every bone of his spine_ \- _EVERY DAY_ -”

 

His lips twitched into a satisfied smile at their horrified grimaces, and he only kept going. He was going to get the message through their thick skulls, if it was the last thing he did.

 

“-For you to _destroy_ him again, just because you’re missing your star player- _okay?_ ”

 

Noble made a noise between a scoff and a disbelieving laugh. “Well, _I’m afraid_ -”

 

“He’s not just a _name_ on your fucking _roster_ , okay?”

 

Patrick’s hiss was full of venom as he leaned forwards, eyes contorting into a burning glower. Klein and Noble looked disgusted at his curse, but Patrick didn’t care any more. “He’s a human being- _a human being_ who’s suffered _way too much_ for this _bullshit_ , okay?”

 

Klein laughed quietly, shaking his head and rolling his eyes subtly, as though he were talking to a child throwing a tantrum. He straightened up, crossing his arms, “Well, what do you suggest we do? We can’t just-”

 

“No, you really _CAN_.” Patrick’s eye twitched and he exhaled sharply, before leaning back too, trying to look diplomatic. “Here’s what’s gonna happen-”

  
Klein and Noble glanced at each other- laughing quietly again, eyes full of mirth.

 

“One: No extra training- he hasn’t deteriorated _at all_ , okay?” Patrick opted to count off on his fingers.

 

“Two: He plays every _other_ match- you substitute people _alternately_. I didn’t work like a dog for five months for you to come ruin everything, get it?”

 

Patrick exhaled, smiling with a narrowed eyebrows. “Three: _No fucking interviews_. He didn't magically heal from one day to the next, the way you're insisting on telling it- It was a _long_ and _brutal_ process.”

 

Klein and Noble stifled laughter, and they shifted in their seats, gazing at Patrick as though he were asking them to bring him the moon.

“Well, I’m afraid you’re forgetting yourself,” Noble laughed again, “You, can't really make any decisions here- You’re just a-”

 

 

 

“He’s right.”

 

 

 

Klein and Noble’s faces dropped as they turned to Pete, shaking their heads and gaping at his words. Pete only leaned back and smiled.

 

“Those injections _really fuckin’ hurt_ , and some of my bones like- _still poke out_ \- so, yeah, he’s right.”

 

The two rushed to make excuses, just before Pete shook his head, shrugging with a sigh. “I mean, if you don’t like the terms, I can just leave.”  
  
Klein’s face only got more desperate. “ _L-Leave?_ ”

 

Pete nodded, raising his eyebrows. “Yeah, leave LA. Someone else’ll hire me-”

 

Patrick huffed; Hire him? Every other club would jump all over him like starving, rabid dogs on a bone.

 

Pete tilted his head, eyes squinting in mock-thought. “I dunno...I’ve always liked _Las Vegas_ -” Klein and Noble tensed at the name of one of their rival clubs. “Urie’s a good friend of mine.”

 

“W-Well, let’s not be too-”

 

“Or maybe Columbus! Dun and Joseph are cool guys, and Ohio’s pretty nice this time of year-”

 

"M-Mr. Wentz-"

 

"The Red Bulls aren't bad either- The guys are great there too: Mikey, Gerard, Frank-"

 

“ALRIGHT.”

 

Klein's breathing was heavily, and he was obviously distressed at the thought of losing their most famous player. He sighed, taking a moment to glare at Patrick before leaning back in his chair.

“...We agree to your terms, Mr. Wentz.” Noble looked to him with wide, unbelieving eyes- but Pete only glanced at Patrick with a sly grin, proud that he'd tricked the two into agreeing- Patrick knew Pete had no intention to leave LA, but he was a damn good liar.

Patrick glanced to his other side to see Dahlman nodding, while stifling a smile and running a hand over his face with a steady exhale.

 

Pete grinned at them, with sarcastic cheeriness, before standing and motioning for Patrick to follow.

 

“Thanks!”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“Oh my god, that was fuckin’ _amazing_.” Pete turned to grin at Patrick, idly, _and messily_ , folding his jersey. "You're cute when you're mad."

 

Patrick laughed loudly, head tipping back against the wall as he glanced at Pete- who was getting changed out of his soccer kit. He’d tugged his jean zipper up when he turned to look at Patrick- a charming half-smile lining his features.

Pete stepped over to the younger man- who instantly tried to move away with a roll of his eyes, suspecting what was about to come. But, as had already been established, Pete had much faster reflexes, and pinned Patrick against the wall, grinning, before slotting their lips together.

Patrick smiled softly and grabbed at Pete’s shoulders as the older man pressed forwards, hands gripping at Patrick’s hips tightly. The redhead gave a breathy moan as Pete’s face moved into his neck, kissing softly.

Pete’s voice was muffled against his neck, but Patrick could still hear his words, and he smiled at Pete's question-

 

“So, d’you think I’m okay to do more... _physically_... _challenging_... _activities_ …?”

 

Patrick’s smile broadened into a grin, and he bit his lip- stifling a moan when Pete’s lips moved to his jaw, kissing gently with soft noises.

 

“After carefully... _analysing_ , your performance-”

 

Pete laughed against Patrick’s skin, sending small sparks through Patrick’s system. He leaned up to look at the redhead fully, eyes soft and pleading. Patrick smiled, hands moving over Pete’s cheeks, and fingers splaying over the stubble, while speaking softly.

 

“I think you’ll be okay.”

 

Pete’s eyes darkened almost immediately, and he surged forwards, lips pressing against Patrick’s deeply, hands tightening around his hips. Pete pulled Patrick’s shirt collar to the side, revealing his shoulder, and the older man moved to kiss the pale skin, smiling at the shudders from the redhead.

 

  
  
“Pete?”

 

 

Patrick laughed loudly at Pete’s noise of protest, as he ignored Patrick and moved to kiss the crook of his neck.

The younger man laughed again, shoving at Pete’s shoulder, “C’mon, _get off_.”

Pete pulled back, but his hands moved to trap Patrick against the wall, and he frowned, jutting his lip out. “ _Whyy_ -”

 

“We are _not_ having sex in a dressing room, Pete.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The kids were at school, and Patrick was extremely thankful to the American education system for the first time in his life.

 

The moment they’d stumbled through the door, Pete was back against Patrick, panting as he pulled the younger man’s hips flush against his own. Patrick’s hands moved to card through Pete’s hair, and he exhaled deeply when he felt Pete’s mouth trailing over his neck again.

“You’ve got a weird obsession with my neck, dude.”

Pete laughed loudly, before Patrick felt him bite down on the skin- successfully reducing the younger man into a shuddering, moaning mess for a moment. Pete moved his lips over the pale, flushed ear.

 

“And _that’s_ why.”

 

“ _Fuck you_.” Patrick laughed breathlessly with no real anger, and Pete only grinned, “Yeah, you’re _gonna_.” He pulled back, looking very proud of himself and Patrick only tipped his head back against the wall with a silent ghost of a laugh and a fond roll of his eyes.

 

 

Turns out bad sex jokes were Pete’s thing- whether he was sober _or_ drunk.

 

 

“Good job, _seriously_ \- become a comedy writer.”

Pete laughed again, fully understanding the sarcasm this time, before deeply kissing the younger man again. Patrick let himself groan his time, exhaling sharply as he pulled Pete closer by the shoulders. Pete’s hand snaked under his shirt, and Patrick suddenly saw sense, mind clearing in a split second. He pulled away and moved his lips over Pete’s ear, nipping at the shell before grinning. “Bedroom.”

Pete's eyes darkened, and he grinned, moving to lick at the shell of Patrick's ear when-

 

"Wait what's this bruise?"

 

"Nervous habit."

 

"Aw, _you've been_ nervous?"

 

"Pete. Bedroom. Now."

 

 

 

 

 

 

“AH, MOTher-”

Patrick had been basically body slammed onto the bed the moment they’d closed the bedroom door, and Pete had crawled over him in a second, lips feverishly pressing open mouth kisses over every inch of visible skin he could reach.

As Pete rocked his hips- that were settled between Patrick’s thighs, they both moaned quietly, gasping into each other’s mouths.

Patrick shuddered, hands shooting over to tug on the hem of Pete’s shirt, and the older man instantly pulled it off- shoving away to the floor with a grunt.

Pete tilted his head, deepening the kiss and licking into Patrick’s mouth, making the redhead mewl and buck his hips involuntarily. The older man sat up for a second, quickly pulling off Patrick’s shirt with a demanding tug before his hands moved to the man’s jeans- when he suddenly stopped, gaze freezing on Patrick.

 

Cripplingly-low self-esteem made Patrick shove at him, awkwardly coughing in order to move the situation along- shit, if Pete changed his mind right now-

 

And then Pete kissed him again, moaning into his mouth as his hand moved to expertly undo his fly, before leaning up again and shoving Patrick’s jeans down his legs, and a broad, dazed smile spread on his face, as his gaze firmly locked on the younger man’s legs, eyes dark and lustful. Pete tossed the jeans away, before trailing his hands over the pale, milky thighs, spreading them with a gentle push and biting his lip as he grinned at the light, faint freckles that covered Patrick entirely.

 

 

“I wish I’d been sober the first time.”

 

 

Patrick huffed, flushing a little at the words and cursing his pale skin as he watched the red and pink blossom under every inch of his skin. Pete caressed one of the creamy thighs, drawing small circles with rough fingertips as he leaned forwards again, kissing Patrick tenderly, fingertips moving to softly trail over the pale neck.

The redhead whined, body going limp under the touches, before he shuddered and managed to ground himself enough to tug at Pete’s jeans- that still stubbornly remained on his hips.

Pete laughed quietly, tugging his jeans away and moving to kiss Patrick again when-

 

“HANG ON.”

 

“W-What?”

 

Patrick sat up, gripping the older man’s sharp hips and tugging down the top of his boxers, “Whoa, _eager_ -”

 

“ _Shut up_ \- Oh- _that’s_ what it is...huh.”

 

Pete furrowed his brow at first, before making a small noise of realization as Patrick’s fingers traced the bat-heart tattoo that had been hidden away under clothes. “You’ve been _that_ curious?”

Patrick nodded, looking up at Pete with a furrowed brow. “Since, like- _day one_.”

Pete laughed loudly, softly pushing Patrick down again, spreading his legs and pulling his hips closer again. “I coulda jus’ shown you, y’know. You shoulda just _asked_.”

Patrick rolled his eyes with a smile, and mumbling with fake-grumpiness. “Well that just takes away the challenge.”

Pete laughed again, moving his face to mouth over the pale collarbones, pressing soft open kisses and gentle bites all over the bones.

 

“Did it hurt?”

 

Pete raised his head at the question and nodded with a grin, “Like a bitch.”

 

Patrick laughed quietly, hands wrapping around Pete’s biceps and pulling himself upwards, until their faces were inches away again. Pete nudged his nose against Patrick’s grinning softly, before kissing his cheek as he leaned up again, towering over the younger man.

Pete smiled softly, before slowly pulling Patrick’s boxers away, and having to stifle a moan at the sight. He quickly squirmed out of his own boxers and Patrick couldn’t fully stifle _his_ groan, a small sound of want escaping him as his hips rocked upwards of their own accord.

Patrick had pressed his legs together again, but Pete spread them with a more insistent shove this time, but still trying to be as gentle as possible while stifling the dark thoughts that clearly swam through his eyes. Pete pressed his hips between Patrick’s legs, and the redhead moaned at the contact, hips rocking with soft whines.

 

Pete pressed his lips against Patrick’s wantonly, exhaling shakily as he took both of them in his hand, jerking both their cocks upwards with a rough stroke. Patrick gave an embarrassingly loud high-pitched moan, legs wrapping tightly around Pete’s hips, as the older man quickened the strokes, twisting his hand around the shafts and running his thumb over their heads. Patrick whined, head thudding back into the mattress as Pete moved to bite at his neck. The redhead moaned loudly, hands scrambling and nails biting into Pete’s back and shoulders, when-

 

“Oh _fuck_ you-”

 

“So _impatient_ , Patrick!”

 

Pete had pulled away completely, a cheery grin on his face, while Patrick only frowned up at him, face scrunched up in mock-anger.

The older man laughed lightly and his fingers ran slowly over Patrick’s entrance, making the redhead shudder- before his eyes snapped wide, and he growled.

 

“Use lube this time, _motherfucker_.”

 

Pete smiled sheepishly, and leaned over to his beside drawer, pulling out a bottle and shifting back over Patrick. “Yeah sorry about that, dude.” Patrick grumbled a little but-

“ _Ah!_ \- Oh _fuck_ \- Pete-”

Pete shallowly moved a wet finger inside of him, grinning softly before biting his lip as he furrowed his brow, crooking his finger while trying to find-

“ _AH_ , _PETE_ \- _FUCk_ \- _ah_ -”

Patrick glared half-heartedly at Pete’s smug expression, but he promptly whined desperately as the older man pushed another finger in. The redhead rocked his hips, mouth parted in soft pants as he watched Pete with dazed eyes, squirming under him.

 

Another finger, and Patrick was officially losing it. “Pete- j-just- _ah_ \- Pete, just- please-”

 

He heard the other man growl lightly, and the fingers moved away, leaving Patrick ready, wanting and trembling. Patrick moaned as Pete leaned over him again, and he shuddered when he felt Pete’s cock pressed against his thigh. “Pete, c’mon just-”

He gave a choked moan as Pete suddenly thrusted into him, albeit slowly and carefully- in _huge_ contrast to their first time together.

 

Patrick’s fingers dug into Pete’s back, toes curling and back arching as his left leg hooked around Pete, pushing him in further. They both shuddered with moans, and Pete’s face dropped into Patrick’s shoulder, as he slowly pulled out a little, before thrusting back in. Patrick choked on a stifled moan again, head tipping back as he panted and mewled heavily as he shuddered with every thrust, goosebumps popping up over his skin.

Pete was kissing his neck again, before thrusting forwards _harder_ , hands supporting himself beside Patrick’s head, while gazing down, firmly locking his brown eyes on the younger man’s slack expression, biting his lip as he watched Patrick’s back arch further with a high, breathy, and desperate moan.

 

Patrick reached up, hooking his arms around Pete’s neck and pulling him down, lips crashing together in a sloppy, but passionate kiss. The thrusts sped up, and the steady sound of skin slapping against skin echoed in Patrick’s ears.

Pete’s face suddenly burrowed into the crook of Patrick’s neck, while one of his hands hooked around Patrick’s knee, pulling the younger man impossibly closer. Patrick wrapped his arms around Pete’s shoulders, cheek smushed against the back of Pete’s head as he flicked his hips upwards, moaning steadily as his cock rubbed against Pete’s stomach with each buck.

 

One hard thrust sent Patrick reeling- arching up into Pete, making the older man drop himself lower, pressing their chests and abdomens together, and trapping Patrick’s cock between both shifting bodies, and soon enough, Patrick started feeling close. Between the delicious friction and Pete's steady, hard thrusts shoving into his prostate every time- he felt a tight knot in his stomach.

Patrick was getting breathless, and he was struggling to control his breathing as his fingers became _bruising_ in Pete’s shoulder blades. He mewled and panted, eyes rolling back, and groaning as he felt Pete bite his ear, before-

 

“I love you.”

 

It was panted, and desperate, but honest, at the same time- and since Patrick’s inhibitions were all but gone, _along with his filter_ \- what he truly felt toppled from his mouth instantly.

 

“I love you too, _I love you too_ \- _so much_ , _ah_ \- I love you-”

 

Patrick’s panting got higher and faster as Pete’s cock twitched inside of him, and he threaded his hands through Pete’s hair tightly, groaning, panting and lapping at Pete’s neck feverishly.

Pete groaned, face nuzzling into the crook of Patrick’s neck, biting down roughly as his hips started snapping forwards, loud, hard, rough and fast- and the sounds were steadily getting more uneven. Patrick gasped against Pete’s neck, eyes fluttering as they also rolled, “P-Pete, ah, I-”

The older man said nothing, and only moved to press sweet kisses to the redhead's lips again, swollen, chapped lips locking against soft, plump, pink ones, and he bit down on Patrick's lower lip.

Patrick whined, before feeling a hand wedge between them, wrapping around his cock and jerking upwards- just as Pete gave a thrust so rough and fast it made the whole bed shake.

Patrick gave a loud, high moan, thighs shaking and legs tightening around Pete and hands gripping his hair tightly as he trembled, coming over Pete’s fist, and all over their abdomens.

Patrick felt a final rough thrust, before Pete’s head collapsed onto the pale shoulder, his forearms holding him up, as his back rose and fell erratically as he tried to regain his breath with steady groans and shudders.

Patrick felt something warm filling him up, and he tipped his head back into the pillow, giving a breathy gasp as he felt Pete’s lips on his Adam’s apple, kissing, nipping and lapping lazily, with lidded, tired eyes.

“I love you.” Patrick’s words were quiet and dazed, and in an instant, Pete’s lips were on his, kissing deeply for a second before pulling back to speak muffled words into Patrick’s cheek.

“I love you too, I _fuckin’_ love you-” Pete pressed a soft kiss to Patrick’s cheek, and the redhead grinned. They locked lips again, and soft gasps, groans and kisses filled the room- along with quiet, adoring whispers of love declarations, before they eventually fell asleep, with Patrick curled up into Pete’s chest.

 

 

“Ugh, _I’m gonna have to change these sheets_.”

 

 

Pete only laughed tiredly, pressing a kiss to the strawberry-blonde strands, threading a hand through as they drifted asleep together.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Patrick’s eyes blinked open and he yawned, face nuzzling into the inked skin with a smile. He cracked an eye wide and stared up at Pete, who was still soundly asleep, and breathing softly.

The younger man shifted onto his back, making Pete turn on his side to cuddle Patrick close as though he were a teddy bear. Patrick laughed quietly, glancing over to his side to-

 

Oh fuck.

 

3:20

 

The kids finished school in ten minutes- _oh fuck_.

 

“-Pete, _PETE_ , **PETE** , PETE C’MON.” Patrick shoved himself up to sit, shaking the older man and hearing him groan discontentedly. “ _Patrick_...”  
  
“The kids- School- ten minutes-” The information escaped him in choked, strained chunks, but it made Pete practically fall out of bed, stumbling to his feet and hastily getting dressed. Patrick followed suit, and they both rushed down the stairs, grabbing keys, jackets, bags- anything and everything they could reach before darting out of the house.

 

Patrick made a start towards his own car, before Pete pulled him towards a yellow tesla with a yell of ' _It's faster!_ ', but only making the younger man groan and roll his eyes in protest as Pete shoved him into the passenger seat, and closed the door. He slid over the hood and crashing into the driver’s seat, grinning at Patrick with wide, expectant eyes.

 

“Yeah good job, Pete.” Patrick huffed in amusement as the older man made a happy noise at the praise and started the car.

 

 

As they drove, a grim realization washed over Patrick, and it made him grimace, wrinkling his nose. “...We didn’t shower.”

Pete inhaled, eyes widening a fraction. There was a brief pause of silence, before- “...Let’s just pick ‘em up, get home as fast as possible, and... _then shower_.” He grinned at Patrick suggestively, only making the younger man roll his eyes again, but not without a fond smile.

 

 

 

 

They stood by the car doors, leaning on the metal and talking quietly, before a faint bell could be heard ringing from the school, and stampedes of children rushed out.

 

Pete and Patrick’s faces split into grins, as they spotted the three boys sprinting out from the crowd while laughing wildly at being released from school.

Bronx and Saint crashed into Pete, and Declan crashed into Patrick, and the two men laughed, greeted their kids and motioned for them to get into the car.

The three boys piled into the back seats, while Pete ducked into the drivers seat, and Patrick moved back into the passenger’s side.

Pete glanced at Patrick with a knowing, promising smile as they pulled away, but suddenly, all of Patrick’s hopes and dreams were shattered as chattering, and _finally_ , a request rose from the back seat.

 

 

 

“Can we go get ice cream?”

 

 

 

The two men stared at each other for a moment, faces blank, before they both exhaled quietly and leaned back into their seats. Patrick was fucking _dreaming_ about the shower, but he knew they'd cave in.

 

 

 

They were complete and utter pushovers.

 

 

 

 


	13. All My Friends Were Glorious, Tonight We Are Victorious

 

“Bronx, d’you have your bag?!”

 

“Yeah! S’right here!”

 

“Okay, c’mon, we have to leave in five minutes!”

 

Bronx ran down the stairs, bag hooked onto his shoulder, and jumping down the last two steps, landing on his feet with a thud, as he skidded to a stop in front of Patrick, beaming widely.

 

“Ready?”

 

Bronx nodded happily, and Patrick shepherded him out of the house, locking the door behind them.

Patrick turned, gazing over the cliff for a second and looking out at the bright pinpricks of light from the city- bright against dark, navy-black swirled sky.

Patrick turned to see Bronx shuffling into the backseat of the car, before Pete shutthe door after him. The older man looked up at the redhead with a grin, motioning to the passenger's seat.

Patrick smiled softly, unhitching his rucksack from his shoulder and ducking into the passenger seat, just as Pete crashed down into the driver’s. Patrick rolled his eyes at the hyperactive man, and shifted back in his seat, turning to check the back seat:

Bronx was slowly falling asleep again as he curled up in his seat, but Saint and Declan were completely out of it; Both boys were soundly asleep, heads leaning together- Pete had carefully carried them from _house-to-car_ successfully- without waking either boy up, all while Patrick had sorted out all the last minute luggage worries, and had shepherded Bronx out of the house too.

Patrick turned in his seat again, smiling softly at the view through the windscreen for a moment, before glancing over at Pete- who was grinning at him, excitement rife in his whiskey eyes.

 

“Ready?”

 

Patrick nodded.

 

“Ready.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Four years

 

Four long years of training for _this_.

 

 

It was time for the world cup again.

 

 

Patrick glanced to his side, finding Pete half-asleep, blinking drearily with Declan burrowed into his side. The redhead smiled, and leaned back in his chair- grimacing at the pain in his ears from the air pressure of the plane.

 

They’d all evolved into a close little family over the years, and Patrick had never been happier.

 

 

Declan was the youngest- only a few months behind Saint, both boys at 10 years old.

He had eventually- and by eventually, it had been around _a whole year_ , gotten used to living in the same house as his idol- and had stopped gaping every time Pete rounded the corner or entered a room. Pete had actually started teaching him to play soccer properly, actual formal lessons, both on practical skills and on strategies- and apparently the boy was soaking up all the information up like a sponge.

While Patrick had no idea what they were doing when they sat at the table, a blueprint of a pitch in front of them, and squinting down whilst chatting quietly- they always looked incredibly serious and focused, as though they were planning battle strategies. And Patrick supposed that, _in a way_ , they actually _were_.

Pete would often rave to Patrick about how ‘ _fuckin’ smart Declan is dude! I’m totally using that strategy, goddamn_ ’. And when he did use the boy’s strategies, Declan would always watch the matches- either on TV or at the stadium- with an overjoyed beam on his face.

 

 

Saint was the middle child, despite technically being the same age as Declan. He was still quite shy, but having Pete, Bronx and Declan- three _major_ extroverts, bouncing around the house 24/7 had helped him become more confident, and generally _happier_ ; Pete was just glad he was getting a _real_ chance to be kid. Pete had confessed to Patrick that Meagan had always kept Saint on an unfairly short leash- and that he never really got to do the stupid stuff that kids do; Build pillow forts, play tag, hide-and-seek, and just, generally, _make a mess_.

Saint had also been taking music lessons from Patrick, and had made amazing progress in guitar, drums and piano- and Patrick had been extremely proud. He’d always felt a little sad that Declan possessed absolutely no interest for music, so when Saint had shown amazing amounts of enthusiasm- and natural talent, he’d been overjoyed.

 

 

Bronx was fourteen now, and he fully took advantage of being the ‘ _oldest brother_ ’, but he’d gotten less confrontational, and his walls had broken down with time. Pete had also insisted that Ashlee leave him with them, and she had... _begrudgingly_ , agreed- with the exception that the boy had to go visit her in Brazil for at least one month every year. Nobody ever looked forwards to that month- but Bronx usually come back with a tan, a lot more fondness towards his family, and with more street soccer tricks that he’d elatedly teach to Declan.

Bronx and Declan had really bonded over their shared love of soccer- and they'd often be found playing soccer together in the yard, all giggles and unbridled laughter. They tried to get Saint to join them all the time, and whenever the boy agreed- he'd return covered in grass and dirt stains, knees grazed red, and a humongous smile on his face.

 

 

Pete and Patrick had only gotten closer over the years too, and arguments were _rare_ \- because as Pete so eloquently put it:

 

‘ _Guys just...understand each other. Like, with Meagan or Ash, they’d tell me they were fine, and then get pissed off two seconds later- ‘cause I ‘didn’t listen’. But you ‘Trick...if you’re ever mad, or upset, or whatever- I know that all you need is a steak and a blowjob_.’

 

And while Patrick would have put it more elegantly, he knew Pete was right- And due to them not fighting much, things at home had been pretty blissful.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Patrick grimaced as his ears popped again, pressing his hands to them in an attempt to soothe them, whilst moving to squint out of the plane window, watching the fluffy clouds disappear as they descended to reveal dusty, yellowed land speckled with green patches here and there- along with huge, packs of skyscrapers, sparkling in the sunlight and standing proudly, almost boastful.

 

Qatar- and the first World Cup the US was hoping to win.

 

Patrick had been nervous all year for this, and he _still_ was- but Pete took every opportunity he could to calm his fears, usually with soft words and sweet kisses that soothed him completely...momentarily, of course.

The tournament had landed right in the middle of the school term, but by giving proper notice, they’d been able to bring the kids with them. And that had been a relief, because with Meagan firmly out of the picture, they had nobody to leave the kids with. The boys were overjoyed at going to watch the World Cup- instead of being stuck at school, and Patrick was overjoyed that they'd come with.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“Agh, ughh, it’s so hooot.” Declan whined, face smushed into Patrick’s side, Saint only whined in agreement, trudging next to Pete with closed eyes- still half-asleep and completely dazed from the sweltering heat.

 

Bronx laughed loudly, he strode forwards happily- the heat didn't seem to bother him in the slightest. “You guys are so dumb.”

 

“Shuddup Bronx, you live in BRAZIL.”

 

“YOU live in LA!”

 

Saint whined at the other two’s arguing, but Declan only wiped the sweat from his face with his arm. “ _So what?_ ”

 

“...So LA’s _really hot too_...duh?”

 

“IT’S NOT _BRAZIL_ THOUGH.”

 

“Alright _girls_ calm down-” Pete laughed and shook his head, “There’s air conditioning at the hotel.”

 

“Ohthankgod.” Saint whined, and Declan only grabbed Patrick’s hand pulling him forwards while walking ahead with urgency. “Let’s hurry pleeeease- ‘Fore I burn alive, and _die_.”

 

Patrick stared blankly at Pete. “He got the drama from _you_.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“ _It’s gonna be okay, ‘Trick_.”

The redhead nodded eagerly at Pete’s whisper, smiling up at Pete with teary eyes, before speaking with a quiet, choked, and strained voice. “ _Yeah, I know_.” Pete cupped a hand over the younger man’s cheek, smiling softly, before pressing soft, sweet kisses to his lips, trying to make the worries fade away.

Patrick sighed softly, pulling away to nuzzle into the soft pillow. Pete followed suit, lying opposite the other man, and throwing an arm around his waist. Their free hands laced together between their faces, and Pete smiled softly. “ _Y’know I’ve_ _actually_ _been able to sleep_ _\- like, properly,_ _since...since you and I..._ ”

Patrick smiled and nodded, reeling off a medical fact with a whispered, but blank voice. “ _Sleeping next to someone helps with insomnia._ ”

Pete nodded softly with a grin, pressing a kiss to Patrick’s forehead when- a loud groan jolted them fully awake.

 

They shot up- leaning up to squint at the kids in the dim light (the only light sources being a bedside table lamp and the city lights shining in through the gigantic, wall-sized windows)- who were all sharing a gigantic bed at the other end of the room, and in a mere few seconds, they’d figured out what the noise had been.

 

Seemingly, Bronx had kicked Declan out of the bed accidentally- all in a sleepy-daze; Pete had told Patrick that much like Declan’s habit to curl his hands into fists while he slept- Bronx kicked _violently,_ like a pissed off kangaroo.

Declan tried to crawl back up to the bed like _fucking Mufasa_ in the Lion King- complete with dramatic grunts of ' _Brother, help me_ '. Bronx only yawned and mumbled, rolling over in his sleep. Declan managed to pull himself up, and he shoved a pillow at Bronx- making the older boy groan in response, before turning with a huff, and curling up in the comforter again.

Pete and Patrick glanced at each other with raised eyebrows, counting themselves extremely lucky that the kids hadn’t stirred awake, before-

 

“Agh- _Daaad_ , Declan hit me with _a pillow_.”

 

“He kicked me out of bed!”

 

“ _Shut up_ , I’m trying to _sleeeep_.”

 

Saint rolled over onto his stomach, pillow firmly pushing over the back of his head, muffling his grumbling. Pete yawned and flopped back onto his side of the mattress, pretending to be asleep- and leaving _this_ particular parenting challenge to Patrick.

 

The redhead sighed, and shook his head. “ _Just go to sleep_ , kids.”

 

A muffled ‘ _THANK YOU_ ’ from Saint came from under his pillow, and Bronx and Declan sighed, dropping back into the mattress and squirming for second, before soft breathing was the only sound from them, and Patrick knew they’d fallen asleep again.

 

Patrick turned to Pete, glaring with no real anger, and voice lowering to a whisper once again. “ _Thanks a lot for the help there._ ” Pete grinned, wrapping the younger man in his arms and resting his chin on his hair. “ _I knew you could handle it._ ”

Patrick huffed in amusement, and shifted Pete to lie on his back, before he curled up against Pete’s side, face smushed into his chest.

 

“ _Patrick?_ ”

 

Patrick leaned up to look at Pete, tilting his head a little. Pete smiled, eyes filled with adoration as he ran a hand through Patrick’s messy hair. He looked hesitant, before he smiled tightly. “ _I love you._ ”

Patrick was too tired and practically half-asleep to notice the suspicious, hiding tone, but he nodded softly, kissing Pete gently, before lying back on his chest, head burrowing under his chin. “ _I love you too._ ”

He shifted slightly.

 

 

“ _Now go the fuck to sleep, you have a game tomorrow._ ”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Patrick leaned back in his seat, scratching behind his ear as his leg bounced of its own accord.

He was sat in the American benches of the Lusail Iconic Stadium, waiting for the final of the World Cup to start.

 

When the US team had passed the semi-finals- conceding _zero_ goals, he’d been overjoyed.

But now it was the final, and it was against Argentina. Patrick could only hope and pray for victory- Pete _deserved this_ , the whole team _deserved this_.

 

Patrick glanced over at the three boys in the benches next to him: Bronx and Declan were eagerly surveying the pitch, chattering excitedly about something soccer-related that Patrick still didn’t understand. Sure, Pete, Bronx and Declan had sat him down before, and spent hours upon hours trying to teach him the simplest terms, but Patrick still didn't really...' _get it_ '.

Saint wasn’t looking around at the pitch- his brown eyes were firmly locked on the tunnel, watching for the players to emerge.

 

 

And a mere few minutes later- they did.

 

 

The US were clad in their normal kits- white, red and blue, while the Argentinians were dressed in light blue and white vertically striped jerseys, along with white socks and shorts.

Patrick felt an awful knot of fear and anxiety in the pit of his stomach as he watched the lines form, just as an Arabic voice- followed by an English translation, announced that the anthems would start soon- both voices ringing through the stadium from the loud speakers.

 

"Please rise for the national anthem of the United States."

 

Patrick stood, pressed a hand over his chest, and was about to motion for the boys to stand too, but they’d already jumped up, pressing their hands to their hearts with beaming smiles.

 

Patrick smiled softly and nodded as he gazed back at the pitch. Pete made eye-contact with him and grinned, before all American’s hands dropped from their hearts as Argentina’s anthem rang out.

 

 

The teams’ lines moved, and each player shook hands, before they all jogged out to their positions.

Pete, and the Argentinian captain ‘ _Messi_ ’- who at the sight of the man, Bronx and Declan had become wide-eyed. Both captains moved to the center of the pitch, calling their bets as the referee flipped a coin. Patrick always thought that Pete had a knack for the coin toss, because soon enough, the referee nodded at Pete, passing him the ball.

 

 

Pete grinned and shook hands with Messi one last time, before motioning Brendon over, placing the ball on the center point, and placing his boot on the ball.

Slowly, Pete exhaled, and looked up at Patrick with a grin one last time, before shifting his gaze to the sky. He dropped it to the man across from him, brow furrowing with pure determination, and he kicked the ball to Brendon.

 

Patrick exhaled heavily as the roars filled his ears, praying with all his heart that Pete would be okay.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The score was 3-3, and they were currently playing on extra time.

Pete was covered in dirt, grass stains and everywhere from his face, to his elbows, to his knees, was grazed red. He’d taken a few falls that had made Patrick’s heart stop- but he’d gotten up and kept running every time.

 

Patrick's gaze shifted, eyes widening as he noticed a scuffle at the US end of the pitch, before Pete sprinting out of the crowd of players- running at an impossible speed while keeping the ball close, so fast and so deft, that it almost looked _magnetized_ to him.

 

Loud, roaring cheers rose from the American crowds, and they only peaked into a steady, ambient thundering sound that made Patrick's ears ache, as Pete chipped the ball over a defender’s head.  
He kept running forwards, closing the distance between himself and the goal, before-

 

A loud, angry roar from the Americans, and loud, triumphant cheers from the Argentinians, as a defender slid his legs under Pete- taking the ball and trying to clear it, the tide turned as Tyler tackled it away from the man, and kicked the ball to Brendon.

  
Brendon had been getting shadowed by a midfielder for the last half of the game, and the Argentinian shadow promptly stole, and kicked the ball past the far line of the goal- and a loud whistle rang, sharply cutting through all the noise.

 

 

A corner kick.

 

 

Patrick saw Borisova tense in the corner of his eye, and the anxious knot in his stomach only tightened further- memories of Borisova's story flashing through his mind, blinding him like lightning bolts.

He chewed on his lip, watching the players shove and push each other as Andy lined up to take the shot.

Andy kicked the ball from the corner, and it sailed over the players- and then everything went into slow motion, as the whole stadium went silent.

 

In one, graceful move, Pete flipped himself backwards, leg straightening, and boot kicking the ball in mid-air, as he curled in on himself- shooting the ball into the right side of the net with a loud, echoing thud, before landing on his knees and hands with a stumble.

 

Everything sped up again, and Patrick’s ears rang with the explosion of thunderous cheering- Patrick had never heard anything louder in his whole life.

He felt arms around him and he looked down to see Declan hugging him tightly, beaming up with a disbelieving open grin- Patrick looked around at the benches, and then at the crowd: Everyone was hugging each other, bouncing up and down, tears of joy were flowing from eyes, overjoyed screams rang out, wild, unbridled cheerful laughter that made Patrick's bones, and the entire stadium, _shake_ \- and it finally kicked in.

 

 

They’d won the World Cup.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

  
  
There was a tentative wave of excited and expectant chattering as the giant screens that lined the stadium showed the US team receiving golden medals, having them placed around their heads, and shaking hands with all kinds of different prestigious people, before moving up to a large, white pedestal, lined with a glass fence. They were all bouncing with excitement as they watched their remaining teammates make their way over, grinning whilst gripping golden medals in their hands tightly.

 

Patrick’s gaze flickered down from the screen, and his open-mouthed beam faltered slightly as he watched the forlorn Argentinians; Some cried, some hugged their families, but some stayed strong and looked up at the screens.

 

Patrick exhaled softly, he felt bad for them- but the US team deserved this. Pete deserved this.

 

He looked up at the screen, and his smile flourished again- even larger this time; Pete had stepped up to the pedestal, and had been fondly shoved front and center by his teammates, hands clapping proudly on his shoulders.

They all made expectant drum rolls with their hands on the fence as the FIFA president moved over with the trophy- golden, shining, and shaped like a globe of the Earth, being held on the shoulders of Nike- the Greek goddess of victory.

The man held the trophy out to Pete- nodding with a smile and a few words of congratulations, before Pete gingerly took it- staring at it with wide, amazed, and overwhelmed eyes.

Pete shifted back to the center, glancing back at his teammates who only chanted ‘lift it’ at him, and Pete laughed, eye corners crinkling, before determination and pure joy settled on his features- He kissed the top of the globe and he lifted it, arms strong and tensed.

 

The thundering cheers exploded again- even _louder_ than last time, the US anthem played in tandem with the cheers, and golden confetti released over the players and American side of the audience.

Pete grinned, dropping his arms back down and passing the cup along to Andy, who stood at his side- and the man repeated the process. Every player did the same- and the cheers remained loud, if not _getting even louder_ with every presenting raise.

 

Patrick grinned up at the screen, eyes getting watery as he watched Pete tearing up on screen, laughing and holding back sobs of relief and pure, unfiltered joy.

The man exhaled, grinning up at the sky, and Patrick had never felt more proud.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“So, how’s it feel to be a World Cup winner?”

 

Pete laughed softly, hands carding through strawberry-blonde strands as he pressed a sweet kiss to Patrick’s forehead. “...Feels _pretty great_ , actually.” Pete gave a low whistle, “ _Thirty-one year old World Cup winner_ \- sounds impossible, huh?”

Patrick laughed for a moment, nuzzling into Pete’s chest. “You’re acting like it’s ‘ _eighty-one_ ’.” Pete grinned with an amused huff of a laugh, pressing another kiss to Patrick’s hair. “Our careers end early- I’m just hanging on for dear life at this point.”

Patrick closed his eyes for a second, and he smiled softly; He was in heaven- or as close as he could get, anyway. Curled up in their old, familiar bed, back in LA, talking idly with Pete, whilst knowing the man had nothing but joy in his heart.

 

Patrick smiled, leaning up to the older man’s cheek and pressing a kiss there, before moving to straddle his lap, rolling his eyes fondly at Pete’s lidded eyes. The redhead shifted to lie down over him, ear pressing against his chest, and listening to Pete’s steady heartbeat.

 

“Do I have to call you ‘ _World Cup Winner: Pete Lewis Kingston Wentz the Third_ ’ now?”

 

Pete burst into loud, unbridled laughter, and Patrick grinned and laughed too as he watched the corner’s of the man’s eyes crinkle. He managed to gasp his breath back, before cupping a hand over the redhead’s cheek and running his thumb over the prominent cheekbone. “Nah, s'a bit of a mouthful.”

 

Patrick smiled gently, head leaning back down to nuzzle into the crook of Pete’s neck, and he felt sleep starting to overtake him, nostrils flooded with the caramel-coffee smell of Pete’s skin.

 

 

“Patrick?”

 

 

Why could he get no sleep in this house?

 

 

“...Yeah, Pete?”

 

 

More silence, before a shaky exhale cut through the air, and Pete shifted them both onto their sides- adamant on facing the redhead, looking him seriously in the eyes, as he chewed his lip and linked their hands.

 

 

“Patrick Martin Vaughn Stumph-”

 

 

Wait.

  
  
What.

 

 

“Will you marry me?”

 

 

Patrick’s eyes widened of their own accord and his jaw dropped open, all while staring into Pete’s accepting, expectant and hopeful whiskey-brown eyes.

 

 

“I-I- W- _Why?_ ”

 

  
Wait, what the fuck?

 

What the fuck was Patrick doing?

  
  
Why was he questioning this?

 

Why was he so socially-awkward?

 

He was getting fucking proposed to by _Pete_ \- not awkwardly ordering KFC from an angsty teenager.

 

 

“I-I m-mean, I-I’m not really- like, a- c- _catch_ , o-or anything-”

 

 

Why was he not selling himself right now?

 

He was lowering his fucking market value- _FUCK_.

 

Pete laughed quietly, pressing a sweet kiss to Patrick’s lips that cleared all his confusion.

 

...Okay, it was obvious.

 

Pete loved him.

 

And he loved Pete.

 

The older man pulled back, smiling easily, but his eyes were still nervous.

 

_You haven’t answered him yet, dipshit._

 

 

“Shit- yes- _YES_ \- I’ll marry you- I’ll-”

  
  
“ _Ohthankgod_ -”

 

 

Pete instantly kissed Patrick again, shifting so that he was leaning over him, as he tilted his head and shuddered in relief. They pulled away from each other with gigantic grins, and Pete rolled over again, resting on his back, as he pulled Patrick into his chest, kissing his hair.

 

“Well, you know what they say, ‘Trick.”

 

“Hmph?”

 

Pete grinned down at the redhead with an insufferably mischievous grin.

 

“... _If you like it then you shoulda put a ring on it_ -”

 

“If you ever quote Beyonce again I’m leaving you.”

 

They both dissolved into laughter, heads tipping to the side and grins settling on their faces.

 

“... _You don’t like Beyonce?_ ”

 

Patrick exhaled with a laugh, “I actually do, _I don’t know where that came from_.”

Pete only laughed harder, pulling Patrick up to kiss him fully, before the redhead moved to spoon into his chest.

 

 

“I think ‘ _Patrick Wentz_ ’ is gonna sound great.”

 

“Hmm...I dunno, I kinda like ‘ _Pete Stumph_ ’- Has a nice ring to it, right?”

 

 

They both laughed again, before baby-blues and whiskey-browns fell closed, and they both drifted asleep- tangled together and hearts filled with joy.

 

 

 


	14. I Wanna Be Like You

 

“Okay, just remember what I’ve taught you, and you’ll be fine.”

 

“Okay, I’ll try.”

 

“-Also, _be careful_. Your dad’s gonna kill me if-”

 

A crisp laugh rang out.

 

“I know, I know- _don’t turn your back on anyone_.”

 

“Okay-”

 

“ _Trust nobody, not even yourself_ -”

 

“Well, those are just memes at this point- _really old memes_ -”

 

Declan laughed loudly, before shaking his head in an attempt to clear it, and Pete couldn’t help laughing too; He felt so proud- no, _ridiculously proud_. He felt as though he was drowning in it- chest swelled, and breath hitching every time he saw the boys.

 

 

“Dude, c’mon! We’re gonna be late!”

 

 

Bronx appeared a few meters away from them, eyes wide as he motioned towards the tunnel to the pitch. Declan rolled his eyes, “We can’t _be late_ -”

 

“ _Yes_ we can.”

 

“Well, it’s called being ‘ _fashionably late_ ’ Bronx, have you never watched any chick-flicks, ever, or-”

 

“ _Jesus H. Christ_ -”

 

“Okay-”

 

Pete, as a father, felt obligated to step in; He knew Bronx and Declan liked to argue- always had since they were young, but it was never actually mean-spirited, so it usually ended up just being hilarious. Like that one time they'd been driving cross country to Illinois, and the boys had taken to arguing about who did better chicken- McDonalds or KFC. Nobody had won, but it had been pretty fucking funny.

 

“Go on, ‘fore they expel you for tardiness.”

 

Declan laughed again and Bronx smiled broadly, walking over quickly to hug his dad tightly. Pete could feel he was shaking. He put a firm, assuring hand on the back of his short blonde hair, “You’ll be fine.”

The boy nodded, and stepped back with a strained, yet determined, closed smile.

 

When they pulled away from each other, Pete noticed Declan staring down the tunnel- posture tense, hands balled into fists, and a bruise that was a result of a nervous habit behind his ear.

He smiled softly. Declan was _so much like_ Patrick in some ways- but so unlike him in others: They were practically identical face-wise, they had the same ticks and habits, but Declan was loud, raucous and athletic- whereas his dad was all academia and watching netflix in Batman pyjamas.

He loved them both, and not despite their differences- but because of them.

 

“Declan?”

 

The boy turned, instantly breaking out into a cheery grin again. Damn, Patrick hadn’t been lying, Declan was a damn good liar- he could be an A-list actor, Pete was sure of it.

 

Pete held out an arm and Declan took the offer in a split second, hugging Pete- even more bone-crushingly than Bronx had. He felt nervous fingers dig into his back, and Pete patted the back of his head, smiling at the familiar strawberry-blonde strands. “ _You’re gonna be fine too_ \- you’re better than me, remember?”

 

Declan pulled away, and suddenly, he was five years old again.

 

Eyes wide, jaw slack, head shaking, and voice adamant. “No, no, there’s _no_ way- there’s literally _no_ -”

 

Pete dissolved into a laugh, and the two boys joined him, before Bronx’s hand clapped on Declan’s shoulder, and he pulled his little brother away.

 

The man turned to leave back to the seats, as one final shout rang from the tunnel, in a corny- and _just plain awful_ , British accent.

 

“ _We’ll make you proud, father!_ ”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Patrick scratched behind his ear nervously, and Saint instantly noticed, opting to nudge him in the ribs gently. “They’ll be fine, dad.” The man huffed with a smile and nodded. “Yeah, I know. I just-”

They both glanced to their side and smiled as Pete awkardly shuffled past and obliged people frantically asking for autographs and selfies, before finally reaching his husband and middle son, sitting down next to them. He grinned at Patrick, nudging him in the other, _ribs_ \- Jesus, he’d get a bruise at this point.

 

“Excited?”

 

Patrick leaned back in his chair, opting to leave the abused skin behind his ear to recover, whilst moving his hands into his lap and looking out over the pitch.

“...Excited...is a word...I guess.”

 

Saint gave a breathy laugh, and leaned forwards to raise his eyebrows at Pete. “He’s worried.” Pete nodded, leaned back in his seat too, with a slight, fond roll of his eyes at the younger man. “...Why’re you _worried?_ ”

The redhead only glared slightly, but there was no venom behind it, “ _Do I have to remind you?_ Thirty-three injections, braces, bandages. I don't want to have to do that for my _sons_ , okay-?”

  
Pete grimaced a little at the painful memories of the brutal treatment, before sighing with a smile, and glancing at Patrick with wide, assuring eyes. “They’ll be okay. They’re smart- Smarter than we give 'em credit for.”

 

Saint burst into loud, abrupt laughter at that, and both men turned to him, making him shrug lightly.

 

 

“...I mean...I found them putting fireworks in a washing machine once, but no big deal- _they're totally smart_.”

 

 

The adults laughed and nodded- okay, maybe not that smart.

"He got the sarcasm from you." Pete nudged his husband again, and Patrick only gave a quiet laugh. "You should be grateful," He leaned back in his seat, crossing his arms, "Sarcasm is a great thing."  
Pete rolled his eyes fondly with a grin, before leaning back too, as silence overtook the three momentarily.

 

 

“They’re gonna be hopeless at math too.”

 

 

A miserable whine came from Patrick, making Pete only scrunch up his face in mock-anger, and lightly punch the man’s shoulder. Patrick smiled a tiny smile but shrugged irritably. “Well, _what?_ Their educations ended at fifteen too- they’re gonna be hopeless.”

“You’re mean.” They only laughed at the childish insult, before Saint spoke up, eyes squinted thoughtfully at the pitch.

 

 

“I’m your _only educated child_ , good job guys.”

 

 

Patrick leaned back further into his seat with a soft, bewildered expression, before his equally soft and bewildered voice chimed in. “Huh, yeah, you are.”

 

Shit, so much for giving Declan an education.

 

Pete only shrugged, “I mean...we saved out on two college tuitions, _sooo_ …-OH! And they’re _happy_ , _sooo_...”

The redhead huffed, “Do you _know_ how rich you are? That wouldn’t even put _a dent_ in-”

 

"Am I so rich you could say that I'm your- ' _Sugar daddy_ '?"

 

"If you ever say that again I'm divorcing you."

 

They could only stifle laughs, before Pete sighed, stretching a little with a quiet yawn.

 

“I suck at math, so I’ll leave the finances to you babe.”

 

“Thanks so much.”

 

 

There was another brief pause of silence, before Pete furrowed his brow and turned to Saint again. “You’re a musician though.”

 

“What?”

 

“So that’s not ‘ _educated_ ’ either. We just suck at parenting- we've got three dumb kids.”

 

Saint only laughed quietly, shaking his head good-naturedly. “ _You_ try learn five instruments and tell me how it goes, dad.”

 

A witty retaliation was on the tip of Pete’s tongue, but loud cheers rose through the stadium as the players emerged.

Due to being family, they were sat high, front and center, in perfect angle to watch the screens. Pete nudged Patrick again, smiling at him assuredly.

 

“They’re gonna be okay.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“Heads.”

 

The referee nodded, and turned to the Italian at his side. The player chewed his lip for a second, before nodding, agreeing to the terms. The referee flipped the coin, before gracefully catching it on his hand.

 

Heads.

 

Bronx grinned- he’d inherited the coin-toss skills too, apparently. He shook hands with the Italian captain, and the referee passed him the ball.

He glanced around; The Americans were wearing their alternates- blood red all over with darker shoulders, and all because the Italians were clad in their classic, royal blue.

 

 

“Declan!”

 

 

He motioned with his head to call his brother over, and with a determined, _yet queasy_ smile, Declan moved over, standing opposite him at the center of the pitch. Bronx placed the ball down on the center point, and rested his boot on it. He exhaled shakily, and put a hand on his brother’s shoulder. “Listen to me, Dec.”

Declan nodded with wide eyes, finally betraying _just how painfully anxious_ he actually was.

 

 

“I trust you.”

 

 

A teary smile and a nod was his answer, along with a shaky, heartfelt. “ _Thank you_.” Declan suddenly grinned, confident, and bubbly facade falling back into place. “Well, _dude_ \- I trust you too.”

 

With a nod and an amused laugh, Bronx pulled his hand away, straightening up and shifting the ball under his foot, and they both turned to face the referee, and waited for his signal.

 

 

A loud, sharp whistle rang through the stadium, and Bronx kicked the ball to Declan.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Pete’s breath hitched, and so did Patrick’s- and so did _Saint’s_ for that matter. Their eyes were wide and staring up at the screen, disbelief and fear settling into their bones.

 

The score had been 3-0 to the US. And the moment the score had turned, Patrick had visibly tensed.

 

History was seemingly repeating itself tonight.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Declan groaned, glowering darkly at the kid who’s shirt read ‘De Rossi’. There’d been a scuffle between them- and a lot of illegal tackling that ‘ _nobody saw_ ’, _get fucked_ piece of shit referee.

 

Declan had tried to clear the ball, and the moment he'd tried to bolt forwards- a steady kick had landed down on his shinbone with a sickening crack.

The boy glared at the doctors trying to approach, and the dark stare made them stutter back into the benches. He moved to pull himself up, before Bronx was at his side, crouching down to offer an arm. Declan grasped it tightly, and shoved himself to his feet- face twisting into a hissing grimace of pain when he put too much weight on the leg.

“Are you okay? D’you need to-”

 

“No.”

 

Declan glared darkly, “No.” He turned and gestured a doctor over- Ruby Trohman stepped forwards first.

Apparently, seeing Patrick give her dad a blood test had sparked a worrying love of needles, and rather than see her become some crazy, needle serial killer- Joe had put her in med school instead.

 

“Get me a bandage, Ruby.”

She nodded quickly and darted away, before returning with a white roll of fabric and offering it to the boy. Bronx exhaled, and his face steadily contorted into bewilderment. “D-Declan?” He watched the boy lean over, tightly securing the bandage around his entire right shin- right up to the crook of his knee.

 

“Y-You can’t keep-”

 

“He’s right,” Ruby stepped in, putting a gentle hand on Declan's shoulder, with wide and pleading eyes. “You’ll injure-”

 

“Let’s go.” With a steady, promising glare at the De Rossi kid, Declan grabbed his brother by the shirt, pulling him back to the pitch. “Declan, _c’mon_ -”

 

“I’m fine.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Tired, nervous defenders, an exhausted, dazed goalie, and a mountainous amount of goal attempts- and the score was up to 3-3, successfully fully pissing off both, Bronx, _and_ Declan.

 

 

As the players repositioned themselves (Bronx and Declan had trudged over to the center again), Declan chewed on his lip, looking back to try and spot his family.

 

He saw Pete, Patrick and Saint- all hunched forwards, with varying degrees of worry in their eyes- something, respectively like:

 

‘I’m a responsible dad, so I’m worried.’

 

‘HOLY SHIT, MY SON IS GONNA DIE.’

 

‘Shit, my brother probably broke his leg right there, right?’

 

 

 

 

Declan motioned Bronx closer, whispering something to him that made the older boy’s face light up- somehow, in both _crippling fear_ , and _ecstatic determination_. “U-Uh, D-Dec- I-I’m not sure-”

 

 

“Just kick the fucking ball.”

 

 

He did, and the cheers rose again. Joint, drawn scores with only a few minutes of play left always made the tension heavy and thick.

 

 

Declan exhaled heavily. He had to do this, and he had to do it right.

 

 

He bolted towards the US goal.

 

 

 

 

 

 

“What’s he doing?!”

 

“-Holy- Joe? Andy? You guys are here-?”

 

Brendon and Gerard poked their heads out from further down the row. “Uh, why wouldn’t we be? It’s a World Cup final, _c’mon dude_.”

 

“You have a point.”

  
  
“Wait, is literally everyone-?”

 

“Dude, reunions can wait- I think your kid's got a concussion.”

 

Pete turned to the pitch, squinting down.

 

Oh shit.

 

Declan was gracefully cutting, chipping and flicking the ball over his own US defenders heads- who were yelling at him and demanding explanations, all while the boy sprinted towards their goal.

 

 

“ _Oh_ _f-fuck_ \- that fall must have-” Patrick’s words died on the end of his tongue, as Pete gasped slowly and heavily.

 

 

 

The Italian defenders had been drawn into the midfield. Their goal was defenseless.

 

 

 

Pete’s face split into a grin- much to the, while still good-natured, angry, mournful comments of ‘ _What the fuck?_ ’ and ‘ _You fuckin' spaghetti traitor_ ’.

 

“I-I don’t get it?” Saint furrowed his brow, leaning over to stare at his dad seriously. He _did not_ understand his dad's grin right now- if Declan scored an own goal- they'd lose, he didn't-

 

Pete only nodded to the pitch, before two, quiet words- filled with pure pride, came from his mouth.

 

 

“2008. Munich.”

 

 

 

 

Everyone’s heads shifted to the pitch, wide eyes everywhere locking on the figures; Declan jumped over the goalie’s slide tackle, and moved to kick the ball into the net... _before_ flicking it back- just before it passed the white line.

 

“Oh that _clever motherfucker!_ ”

 

“Don’t call my son a motherfucker!”

 

“Sorry, Stumph- Oh shit, _Wentz_ , sorry.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

Declan sprinted back down the pitch at full pelt, heart thundering against his ribs and injured leg groaning under the strain.

 

Five meters away.

 

Five meters away, come on-

 

Declan fell onto the grass, rolling to a stop with a loud, sharp groan, and eyes clenching shut as he pulled his folded, bandaged leg into his chest. Fuck, it hurt. It hurt so fucking much- _FUCK_ , he’d been so close. He’d almost-

 

 

Wait.

 

 

There was _cheering_. Oh, wow- it was _seriously loud_ \- made his ears hurt- Why was there _cheering?_

Were they celebrating that he fell? Fucking _assholes_ -

 

He felt someone shake his shoulder, and he groggily blinked his eyes open to see Bronx leaning down to him, offering a hand. Declan furrowed his brow as he gaped slightly- not still completely sure at what was going on.

 

Bronx had tears in his eyes, and he hooked an arm over his brother’s shoulders to help him stand straight, before gesturing up at one of the screens. “Look.”

 

So Declan did look.

 

And Declan shuddered in relief- a titanic grin flourishing on his face.

 

_Bronx_ had scored.

 

One of Declan’s footfalls had landed in _just the wrong way_ , and his leg had collapsed under the strain- on account of no longer being able to support him properly.

-But just as Declan had fallen, Bronx had sprinted up, taken the ball, and had kicked it from five meters away- shooting it into the right side of the net with a thud.

 

 

They’d won. Their first World Cup- and they’d won.

 

 

 

 

“Holy shit.”

 

“Saint don’t swear.”

 

“Sorry dad.”

 

They all huffed and laughed in amusement- but their eyes were amazed and wide, looking up at the screens and down at the pitch alternately.

 

It was the US’s third, consecutive World Cup win, and their first one without Pete- but the older man had always assured press and paparazzi, that still insisted on plaguing him- that Bronx and Declan were more than enough of a replacement. Pete always insisted that they- _individually_ , were better than he was, but nobody really believed it- the boys included.

In the end, Pete had gone down in US sport history, and there were literal exhibits dedicated to him at the National Soccer Hall of Fame- and at the international FIFA hall, too. But the man still insisted that Bronx and Declan would join him there as soon as they retired. And speaking of retirement, due to soccer careers ending at early ages, and due to having a ridiculous amount of money- and finally, due to Pete insisting he was 'getting old' despite only being 38, he'd retired just as Bronx had started. And that meant entire days and nights spent with Patrick, and Pete wouldn't have it any other way.

 

 

Patrick felt fingers subtly lace with his own, and he glanced away from the screen- where Bronx was shaking hands with some old guy, who must have been important, or something. And he found Pete grinning at him knowingly- his smile and face practically screaming ‘ _I told you so_ ’.

 

Patrick only gave him a cool, aloof look as he raised his brows, and _his_ face practically screamed ‘ _He probably broke his leg, so don’t even fucking try me right now_ ’.

Pete laughed quietly, and pressed a peck to the back of Patrick’s hand, before leaning back and watching the screens again with a proud smile and watery eyes.

Patrick smiled softly, eyes gazing over his wedding ring for a moment; Golden, shiny, and bright against his pale skin. The first wedding ring he’d truly wanted to wear- and it felt amazing. It had felt amazing since the day it had been slid onto his finger, it had felt amazing every day he’d woken up with Pete since, and it still did- and Patrick suspected it always would. He smiled softly at Pete's ring, on his other hand that was picking at a loose strand on the knee of his jeans.

 

With a soft, content exhale, Patrick's gaze moved back to the screen, and his heart swelled with joy and pride as he watched the FIFA president hand the same trophy Pete had held _seven_ , and then, _four_ years ago, to Bronx.

The boy smiled politely at the words of congratulations, and Patrick felt a small prick of satisfaction at his good manners, since Patrick had had to instil those, because Pete hadn’t bothered- like, at all.

Bronx turned to the camera with a shaky exhale, before he nodded to himself and grinned, before turning to give the cup to Declan.

 

 

 

 

 

 

“B-Bronx- no, you’re the-”

 

“I know.”

 

“-B-But, you scored the-”

 

“I know.”

He held it out again, eyes wide and pleading, but also filled with pride, and love, and kindness. Declan smiled tearfully, and nodded softly, taking the cup into his hands- fingers splaying over the cool metal, eyes widening gently and mouth falling into a gape. Bronx put a hand on Declan’s shoulder, shifting them both to the side so that the younger boy was front and center.

 

“I’ll take the next one. You deserve it this time.”

 

“Next one?”

 

“You better believe it, dude.”

 

"Aye, aye, captain!"

 

They both laughed at Declan's pretty spot-on pirate impression, as the expectant cheers from the crowds only kept rising.

 

Declan exhaled shakily, grinning as a nervous, but excited, knot in his stomach began to writhe.

He checked the base of the trophy for a second- smiling when he read the winning teams that had been engraved on the bottom, and his smile only broadened as he saw the two most recent. ‘ _USA_ ’, and, ‘ _USA_ ’.

After this celebration, a third ‘ _USA_ ’ would join it. And it was all because of him and Bronx- Declan couldn’t be happier.

Everything felt slow, calm and relaxed. Declan’s eyes shifted downwards to the top of the golden Earth.

 

 

He kissed the globe, and he lifted their third World Cup- and the thundering cheers would echo in his ears forever.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“Can you help me hang it up dad?”

 

“Sure, buddy. Pass it here.”

 

A small, skinny blonde boy handed the rolled up poster to his father. The man carefully cut the plastic away with a pair of scissors, before his son took the other end of the poster- slowly rolling it open, before squeaking happily at the sight.

The man tilted his head, and a smile broke out on his face at the familiar faces:

 

The Wentz brothers stood against a white background; They were both clad in the classic, US home red, white and blue jerseys, along blue shorts and socks, and non-branded boots- because if the US's sponsors ever changed, the board didn’t want any backlash.

 

The shorter, pale, skinny redheaded brother grinned at the camera mischievously, pulling his jersey at the chest to hold out the US soccer badge proudly. His other arm tried- in some sense of vain, to lean on his older brother’s shoulder, but since the other boy was taller, the redhead was having to lean up uncomfortably.

His left foot was resting on a soccer ball lazily, and there was a bandage around his right knee- something that he didn’t need, but had become somewhat of a staple for him after his injury at the world cup. It was his... _symbol_ , if you will.

 

The older brother was only a couple of inches taller, but he seemed to take full advantage of it, as he smiled at the camera smugly with amused eyes. He stared forwards with raised eyebrows, and looked as though he was on the edge of bursting into laughter at any moment- but it was perfectly frozen in time.

-And in his hands, the older boy held the prestigious World Cup- golden and shining, whilst still sharp and defined. His fingers splayed over the metal, and it was turned in a certain way that the string of the three, consecutive words of ‘ _USA_ ’ were fully visible.

 

The American soccer badge was in the top right- printed in crisp, bright, and proud colors, while at the bottom, at each of the brother’s feet- were two, printed signatures; One was neat, and the words ‘ _Bronx Wentz_ ’ could be made out easily, while the other was scrawled, and subtitled with a smiley face, but with enough squinting for around ten minutes- the name ‘ _Declan Wentz_ ’ could be determined.

 

“So,” The man smiled down at his son, and then gestured at the blank, bedroom walls. “Where’d you want this one?”

 

 

 

 

“Right! No, left- ugh, daaad, _c’moon_.”

 

“How about _here?_ ” The man had been positioning this damn thing for a good twenty minutes, but a father’s patience is endless. _Thankfully_.

 

“YES!- Right there!”

 

The man pinned the poster to the wall, before moving away as his son stepped towards it- eyes wide and filled with awe at his idols.

 

 

“I wanna be like _them_ one day.”

 

 

The man nodded with a smile- he remembered being thirteen, and putting up posters of fifteen-year old Pete Wentz all over his room- back when soccer had first been getting popular.

He’d wanted to be like Pete Wentz, but of course, no natural talent had cut that dream short abruptly. But he'd still found enough joy in being a chemist.

-But his son...no...his son had potential- it was why they had moved to LA in the first place, the boy had been offered junior training at LA Galaxy- and he’d begged his mom and dad to accept. So, in order to help his son fulfill his dream, he and his wife had packed up everything from their house in Mississippi, and had made the huge move to LA.

People- his parents and such, had called them insane- but he and his wife didn’t care. Their son came first. His happiness came first. And, besides, the man had been offered a pretty great job at the club too- sorting the drugs and prescriptions out for the players.

 

 

He smiled down at his son, hand ruffling his light hair just as the door opened, and his wife stepped inside, eyes locked on the poster with a reminiscing grin as she nodded softly.

 

“Those are the Wentz boys, right?”

 

“Uh-huh!” Their son chimed in, glancing back at his mom for a second, before his eyes firmly locked back on the poster- chest swelling with joy at the sight of his idols.

 

The woman leaned her head on her husband’s shoulder for a moment, before clicking her fingers in realization.

 

“I used to have _the biggest_ crush on their dad- _Pete Wentz_ , d’you remember?”

 

The man laughed, eyes squeezing shut before he nodded at her. “I remember, you had more posters than I did.”

She laughed too, accepting his offer of a warm, side embrace. There was a moment of silence, reminiscing and contemplation, before the man nudged his wife softly. “Now that we’re in LA, are you gonna hunt him down? Leave me for Pete Wentz?”

The woman laughed, nudging her husband back as they watched their son dart over to his rucksack, fishing around for his jerseys. She pecked her husband on the mouth sweetly, before patting his cheek with her hand gently.

“No, sweetheart, you’re all I need.” He huffed in amusement as she moved away, stepping over to the door, before grinning back with amused eyes and shrugging with fake disappointment. “- he’s married anyway.”

They laughed again, just as the boy ran over to his dad- handing up another plastic-encased poster. “I’ll go check on the baby, you do the walls.” He nodded at his wife with a smile, before looking down at the new poster, and after a lot of contradicting instructions- courtesy of his son, he stepped back into the center of the room, looking around with a gentle smile.

 

The walls were covered in his son’s idols, and although most posters were of the Wentz brothers, either for LA Galaxy, or for the US national team- A few other clubs made appearances; The Las Vegas Mobsters, the New York Red Bulls, and Columbus Crew SC, most notably.

His smile broadened, and his eyes glazed over with thought as he remembered all the idols he’d had- besides Pete Wentz, growing up: Hurley, Trohman, Urie, Ross, Smith, Weekes, Walker, Harris, Joseph, Dun, the Way brothers, Iero, Toro- those were good times, simpler times, one might argue.

 

A sudden, tight hug around his stomach cut through his thoughts, and he looked down to see his son’s face smushed against him.

 

 

“Thank you so much dad!”

 

 

“You’re welcome, buddy.”

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And FIN!  
> Thank you so much to everyone who's read, commented, left kudos, or bookmarked- you're all awesome, I'm ridiculously happy. I literally woke up super early every day 'cause I wanted to read your comments and write more chapters. I hope this ending was satisfactory lmao, and I really hope you all enjoyed the story! I'm sorry it's a little shorter than my first fic, but I didn't want to drag it out too much.  
> I hope you guys stick around for my next fic, which is probably going up today- just a quick warning though: It's really different to this one, it's still peterick- because I'm trash, but it's going in a completely different direction lol  
> Thank you all again!! You're all amazing!! <3


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